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THE 


KING'S STRATAGEM 

AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


STANLEY J j WEYMAN 

Author of “ A Gentleman of France “ Under the Red Robe'' 
“ My Lady Rotha," etc., etc. 



NEW YORK 

PLATT & BRUCE 

70 Fifth Avenue 

189s 





yr 5-4 ■ 







Copyright, 1895, 

BY 

THE ROXBURGH PUBLISHING COMPANY. 









THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS. 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


CONTENTS. 


The King’s Stratagem, 
The Body-Birds of Court, 
In Cupid’s Toils, . 

The Drift of Fate, . 

A Blore Manor Episode, 


The Fatal Letter. 



THE KING’S STRATAGEM. 


N the days when Henry IV. of 
France was King of Navarre 
only, and in that little kingdom 
of hills and woods which occupies the 
southwest corner of the larger country, 
was with difficulty supporting the Hugue- 
not cause against the French court and 
the Catholic League — in the days when 
every isolated castle, from the Garonne 
to the Pyrenees, was a bone of contention 
between the young king and the crafty 
queen-mother, Catherine de Medicis, a 
conference between these notable person- 
ages took place in the picturesque town 
of La R£ole. 

La Reole still rises gray, time-worn, 
and half-ruined on a lofty cliff above the 
broad green waters of the Garonne, forty 
odd miles from Bordeaux. But it is a 
small place now. In the days of which 
we are speaking, however, it was impor 




2 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


tant, strongly fortified, and guarded by a 
castle which looked down on a thousand 
red-tiled roofs, rising in terraces from the 
river. As the meeting-place of the two 
sovereigns it was for the time as gay as 
Paris itself, Catherine having brought 
with her a bevy of fair maids of honor, in 
the effect of whose charms she perhaps 
put as much trust as in her own diplo- 
macy. But the peaceful appearance of 
the town was delusive, for even while 
every other house in it rang with music 
and silvery laughter, each party was ready 
to fly to arms without warning, if it saw 
that any advantage was to be gained 
thereby. 

On an evening shortly before the end 
of the conference two men sat at play in 
a room, the deep-embrasured window of 
which looked down from a considerable 
height upon the river. The hour was late, 
and the town silent. Outside, the moon- 
light fell bright and pure on sleeping 
fields and long, straight lines of poplars. 
Within the room a silver lamp suspended 
from the ceiling threw light upon the ta- 
ble, leaving the farther parts of the room 
in shadow. The walls were hung with 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


3 


faded tapestry. On the low bedstead in 
one corner lay a handsome cloak, a sword, 
and one of the clumsy pistols of the 
period. Across a chair lay another cloak 
and sword, and on the window seat, be- 
side a pair of saddlebags, were strewn 
half a dozen such trifles as soldiers carried 
from camp to camp — a silver comfit-box, 
a jeweled dagger, a mask, and velvet cap. 

The faces of the players, as they bent 
over the dice, were in shadow. One — a 
slight, dark man of middle height, with 
a weak chin, and a mouth as weak, but 
shaded by a dark mustache — seemed, 
from the occasional oaths which he let 
drop, to be losing heavily. Yet his oppo- 
nent, a stouter and darker man, with a 
sword-cut across his left temple, and that 
swaggering air which has at all times 
marked the professional soldier, showed 
no signs of triumph or elation. On the 
contrary, though he kept silence, or spoke 
only a formal word or two, there was a 
gleam of anxiety and suppressed excite- 
ment in his eyes, and more than once he 
looked keenly at his companion, as if to 
judge of his feelings or learn whether the 
time had come for some experiment which 


4 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


he meditated. But for this, an observer 
looking in through the window would 
have taken the two for only one more 
instance of the hawk and pigeon. 

At last the younger player threw down 
the caster, with a groan. 

“ You have the luck of the Evil One,” 
he said bitterly. “ How much is that ? ” 
“Two thousand crowns,” replied the 
other without emotion. “ You will play 
no more ? ” 

“ No ! I wish to Heaven I had never 
played at all ! ” was the answer. As he 
spoke the loser rose, and going to the 
window stood looking moodily out. 

For a few moments the elder man 
remained seated, gazing at him furtively, 
but at length he too rose, and, stepping 
softly to his companion, touched him on 
the shoulder. “Your pardon a moment, 
M. le Vicomte,” he said. “Am I right in 
concluding that the loss of this sum will 
inconvenience you ? ” 

“A thousand fiends!” exclaimed the 
young vicomte, turning on him wrath- 
fully. “ Is there any man whom the loss 
of two thousand crowns would not incon- 
venience ? As for me ” 


THE KING’S STRATAGEM . 


5 


“ For you,” continued the other, 
smoothly filling up the pause,. “ shall I be 
wrong in saying that it means something 
like ruin ?” 

“Well, sir, and if it does?” the young 
man retorted, drawing himself up haugh- 
tily, his cheek a shade paler with passion. 
“ Depend upon it you shall be paid. Do 
not be afraid of that ! ” 

“ Gently, gently, my friend,” the winner 
answered, his patience in strong contrast 
with the other’s violence. “ I had no 
intention of insulting you, believe me. 
Those who play with the Vicomte de 
Lanthenon are not wont to doubt his 
honor. I spoke only in your own in- 
terest. It has occurred to me, vicomte, 
that the matter might be arranged at less 
cost to yourself.” 

“ How? ” was the curt question. 

“ May I speak freely ? ” The vicomte 
shrugged his shoulders, and the other, 
taking silence for consent, proceeded : 
“You, vicomte, are Governor of Lusigny 
for the King of Navarre ; I, of Creance, 
for the King of France. Our towns lie 
only three leagues apart. Could I, by any 
chance, say on one of these fine nights, 


6 THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 

become master of Lusigny, it would be 
worth more than two thousand crowns to 
me. Do you understand ? ” 

“No,” the young man answered 
slowly, “ I do not.” 

“ Think over what I have said, then,” 
was the brief answer. 

For a full minute there was silence in 
the room. The vicomte gazed out of the 
window with knitted brows and com- 
pressed lips, while his companion, sitting 
down, leaned back in his chair, with an 
air of affected carelessness. Outside, the 
rattle of arms and hum of voices told that 
the watch were passing through the street. 
The church bell struck one. Suddenly 
the vicomte burst into a hoarse laugh, 
and, turning, snatched up his cloak and 
sword. “ The trap was very well laid, 
M. le Capitaine,” he said almost jovially ; 
“ but I am still sober enough to take care 
of myself — and of Lusigny. I wish you 
good-night. You shall have your money, 
never fear.” 

“ Still, I am afraid it will cost you 
dearly,” the captain answered, as he rose 
and moved toward the door to open it for 
his guest. His hand was already on the 




THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


7 


latch when he paused. “ Look here,” he 
said, “ what do you say to this, then? I 
will stake the two thousand crowns you 
have lost to me, and another thousand 
besides against your town. Fool ! no one 
can hear us. If you win, you go off a 
free man with my thousand. If you lose, 
you put me in possession one of these fine 
nights. What do you say to that? A 
single throw to decide.” 

The young man’s pale face reddened. 
He turned, and his eyes sought the table 
and the dice irresolutely. The tempta- 
tion indeed came at an unfortunate mo- 
ment, when the excitement of play had 
given way to depression, and he saw 
nothing before him outside the door, on 
which his hand was laid, but the cold 
reality of ruin. The temptation to return, 
and by a single throw set himself right 
with the world was too much for him. 
Slowly he came back to the table. “ Con- 
found you ! ” he said irritably. “ I think 
you are the devil himself, captain.” 

“ Don’t talk child’s talk ! ” said the 
other coldly, drawing back as his victim 
advanced. “If you do not like the offer 
you need not take it.” 


8 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


But the young man’s fingers had already 
closed on the dice. Picking them up he 
dropped them once, twice, thrice on the 
table, his eyes gleaming with the play- 
fever. “If I win?” he said doubtfully. 

“You carry away a thousand crowns,” 
answered the captain quietly. “If you 
lose you contrive to leave one of the 
gates of Lusigny open for me before next 
full moon. That is all.” 

“And what if I lose, and not pay the 
forfeit?” asked the vicomte, laughing 
weakly. 

“I trust to your honor,” said the cap- 
tain. And, strange as it may seem, he 
knew his man. The young noble of the 
day might betray his cause and his trust, 
but the debt of honor incurred at play 
was binding on him. 

“ Well,” said the vicomte, “ I agree. 
Who is to throw first ? ” 

“As you will,” replied the captain, 
masking under an appearance of indiffer- 
ence a real excitement which darkened 
his cheek, and caused the pulse in the old 
wound on his face to beat furiously. 

“ Then do you go first,” said the 
vicomte. 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 9 

“ With your permission,” assented the 
captain. And taking the dice up in the 
caster he shook them with a practiced 
hand, and dropped them on the board. 
The throw was seven. 

The vicomte took up the caster and, 
as he tossed the dice into it, glanced at 
the window. The moonlight shining 
athwart it fell in silvery sheen on a few 
feet of the floor. With the light some- 
thing of the silence and coolness of the 
night entered also, and appealed to him. 
For a few seconds he hesitated. He 
even made as if he would have replaced 
the box on the table. But the good 
instinct failed. It was too late, and with 
a muttered word, which his dry lips 
refused to articulate, he threw the dice. 
Seven ! 

Neither of the men spoke, but the 
captain rattled the cubes, and again 
flung them on the table, this time with 
a slight air of bravado. They rolled one 
over the other and lay still. Seven 
again. 

The young vicomte’s brow was damp, 
and his face pale and drawn. He forced 
a quavering laugh, and with an unsteady 


IO 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


hand took his turn. The dice fell far 
apart, and lay where they fell. Six ! 

The winner nodded gravely. “ The 
luck is still with me,” he said, keeping his 
eyes on the table that the light of 
triumph which had suddenly leapt into 
them might not be seen. “ When do you 
go back to your command, vicomte ? ” 
The unhappy man stood like one 
stunned, gazing at the two little cubes 
which had cost him so dearly. “ The 
day after to-morrow,” he muttered 
hoarsely, striving to collect himself. 

1 “ Then we shall say the following even- 
ing ? ” asked the captain. 

“ Very well.” 

“ We quite understand one another,” 
continued the winner, eyeing his man 
watchfully, and speaking with more 
urgency. “ I may depend on you, M. le 
Vicomte, I presume ? ” 

“ The Lanthenons have never been 
wanting to their word,” the young noble- 
man answered, stung into sudden haughti- 
ness. “ If I live I will put Lusigny into 
your hands, M. le Captaine. Afterward 
I will do my best to recover it — in 
another way.” 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. n 

“ I shall be entirely at your disposal,” 
replied the captain, bowing lightly. And 
in a moment he was alone — alone with 
his triumph, his ambition, his hopes for 
the future — alone with the greatness to 
which his capture of Lusigny was to be 
the first step, and which he should enjoy 
not a whit the less because as yet fortune 
had dealt out to him more blows than 
caresses, and he was still at forty, 
after a score of years of roughest ser- 
vice, the governor of a paltry country 
town. 

Meanwhile, in the darkness of the 
narrow streets the vicomte was making 
his way to his lodgings in a state of 
despair and unhappiness most difficult to 
describe. Chilled, sobered, and affrighted 
he looked back and saw how he had 
thrown for all and lost all, how he had 
saved the dregs of his fortune at the 
expense of his loyalty, how he had seen 
a way of escape and lost it forever! No 
wonder that as he trudged alone through 
the mud and darkness of the sleeping 
town his breath came quickly and his 
chest heaved, and he looked from side to 
side as a hunted animal might, uttering 


12 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM . 


great sighs. Ah, if he could only have 
retraced the last three hours ! 

Worn out and exhausted, he entered 
his lodging, and, securing the door behind 
him, stumbled up the stone stairs and 
entered his room. The impulse to con- 
fide his misfortunes to someone was so 
strong upon him that he was glad to see 
a dark form half sitting, half lying in a 
chair before the dying embers of a wood 
fire. In those days a man’s natural con- 
fidant was his valet, the follower, half- 
friend, half-servant, who had been born 
on his estate, who lay on a pallet at the 
foot of his bed, who carried his billets- 
doux and held his cloak at the duello, 
who rode near his stirrup in fight and 
nursed him in illness, who not seldom 
advised him in the choice of a wife, and 
lied in support of his suit. 

The young vicomte flung his cloak 
over a chair. “ Get up, you rascal ! ” he 
cried impatiently. “ You pig, you dog ! ” 
he continued, with increasing anger. 
“ Sleeping there as though your master 
were not ruined by that scoundrel of a 
Breton! Bah!” he added, gazing bitterly 
at his follower, “ you are of the canaille , 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 13 

and have neither honor to lose nor a 
town to betray ! ” 

The sleeping man moved in his chair and 
half turned. The vicomte, his patience 
exhausted, snatched the bonnet from 
his head, and threw it on the ground. 
“ Will you listen ? ” he said. “ Or go, if 
you choose look for another master. I 
am ruined ! Do you hear? Ruined, Gil ! 
I have lost all — money, land, Lusigny 
itself, at the dice ! ” 

The man, aroused at last, stooped with 
a lazy movement, and picking up his hat 
dusted it with his hand, and rose with a 
yawn to his feet. 

“ I am afraid, vicomte,” he said, his 
tones, quiet as they were, sounding like 
thunder in the vicomte’s astonished and 
bewildered ears, “ I am afraid that if you 
have lost Lusigny, you have lost some- 
thing which was not yours to lose ! ” 

As he spoke he struck the embers with 
his foot, and the fire, blazing up, shone 
on his face. The vicomte saw, with 
unutterable confusion and dismay, that 
the man before him was not Gil at all, 
but the last person in the world to whom 
he should have betrayed himself. The 


14 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


astute smiling eyes, the aquiline nose, the 
high forehead, and projecting chin, which 
the short beard and mustache scarcely 
concealed, were only too well known to 
him. He stepped back with a cry of 
horror. “Sire!” he said, and then his 
tongue failed him. He stood silent, pale, 
convicted, his chin on his breast. The 
man to whom he had confessed his 
treachery was the master whom he had 
conspired to betray. 

“ I had suspected something of this,” 
Henry of Navarre continued, after a 
pause, a tinge of irony in his tone. 
“ Rosny told me that that old fox, the 
Captain of Creance, was affecting your 
company a good deal, M. le Vicomte, and 
I find that, as usual, his suspicions were 
well founded. What with a gentleman 
who shall be nameless, who has bartered 
a ford and a castle for the favor of Mile, 
de Luynes, and yourself, I am blest 
with some faithful followers ! For 
shame ! ” he continued, seating himself 
with dignity, “ have you nothing to say 
for yourself?” 

The young noble stood with his head 
bowed, his face white. This was ruin, 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 15 

indeed, absolutely irremediable. “ Sire,” 
he said at last, “ your Majesty has a right 
to my life, not to my honor.” 

“Your honor!” quoth Henry, biting 
contempt in his tone. 

The young man started, and for a sec- 
ond his cheek flamed under the well-de- 
served reproach ; but he recovered him- 
self. “ My debt to your Majesty,” he 
said, “I am willing to pay.” 

“ Since pay you must,” Henry mut- 
tered softly. 

“ But I claim to pay also my debt to 
the Captain of Cr£ance.” 

“Oh,” the king answered. “So you 
would have me take your worthless life, 
and give up Lusigny ? ” 

“ I am in your hands, sire.” 

“Pish, sir!” Henry replied in angry 
astonishment. “You talk like a child. 
Such an offer, M. de Lanthenon, is folly, 
and you know it. Now listen to me. It 
was lucky for you that I came in to-night, 
intending to question you. Your mad- 
ness is known to me only, and I am will- 
ing to overlook it. Do you hear? Cheer 
up, therefore, and be a man. You are 
young ; I forgive you. This shall be be- 


1 6 THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 

tween you and me only,” the young 
prince continued, his eyes softening as 
the other's head drooped, “ and you 
need think no more of it until the day 
when I shall say to you, ‘ Now, M. de 
Lanthenon, for France and for Henry, 
strike ! ’ ” 

He rose as the last word passed his 
lips, and held out his hand. The vicomte 
fell on one knee, and kissed it reverently, 
then sprang to his feet again. “ Sire,” 
he said, standing erect, his eyes shining, 
“ you have punished me heavily, more 
heavily than was needful. There is only 
one way in which I can show my grat- 
itude, and that is by ridding you of a 
servant who can never again look your 
enemies in the face.” 

“ What new folly is this?” said Henry 
sternly. “ Do you not understand that I 
have forgiven you ? ” 

“ Therefore I cannot give up Lusigny, 
and I must acquit myself of my debt 
to the Captain of Cr6ance in the only way 
which remains,” replied the young man, 
firmly. “ Death is not so hard that I 
would not meet it twice over rather than 
again betray my trust.” 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 17 

“This is midsummer madness!’’ said 
the king hotly. 

“ Possibly,” replied the vicomte, with- 
out emotion ; “ yet of a kind to which 
your Majesty is not altogether a 
stranger.” 

The words appealed strongly to that 
love of the chivalrous which formed part 
of the king’s nature, and was one cause 
alike of his weakness and his strength, 
which in its more extravagant flights gave 
opportunity after opportunity to his ene- 
mies, in its nobler and saner expressions 
won victories which all his astuteness and 
diplomacy could not have compassed. 
He stood looking with half-hidden admi- 
ration at the man whom two minutes 
before he had despised. 

“ I think you are in jest,” he said 
presently. 

“No, sire,” the young man answered 
gravely. “In my country they have a 
proverb about us. * The Lanthenons,’ 
say they, 4 have ever been bad players, 
but good payers.’ I will not be the first 
to be worse than my name! ” 

He spoke with so quiet a determination 
that the king was staggered, and for a 


1 8 the KING'S STRATAGEM. 

minute or two paced the room in silence, 
inwardly reviling the generous obstinacy 
of his weak-kneed supporter, yet unable 
to withhold his admiration from it. At 
length he stopped, with a low, abrupt 
exclamation. 

“ Wait ! ” he cried. “ I have it ! Ventre 
Saint Gris, man, I have it!” His eyes 
sparkled, and, with a gentle laugh, he hit 
the table a sounding blow. “Ha! ha! 
I have it!” he repeated joyously. 

The young noble gazed at him in sur- 
prise, half sullen, half incredulous. But 
when Henry, in low, rapid tones, had 
expounded his plan, the vicomte’s face 
underwent a change. Hope and life 
sprang into it. The blood flew to his 
cheeks. His whole aspect softened. In 
a moment he was on his knee, mumbling 
the king’s hand, his eyes full of joy and 
gratitude. After that the two talked 
long, the murmur of their voices broken 
more than once by the ripple of low 
laughter. When they at length separated, 
and Henry, his face hidden by the folds 
of his cloak, had stolen away to his lodg- 
ings, where, no doubt, more than one 
watcher was awaiting him with a mind 


THE KING’S STRATAGEM. 19 

full of anxious fears, the vicomte threw 
open his window and looked out on the 
night. The moon had set, but the stars 
still shone peacefully in the dark canopy 
above. He remembered on a sudden, 
his throat choking with silent repressed 
emotion, that he was looking toward his 
home — the stiff gray pile among the 
beech woods of Navarre which had been 
in his family since the days of St. Louis, 
and which he had so lightly risked. And 
he registered a vow in his heart that of 
all Henry’s servants he would henceforth 
be the most faithful. 

Meanwhile the Captain of Creance was 
enjoying the sweets of coming triumph. 
He did not look out into the night, it is 
true, but pacing up and down the room he 
planned and calculated, considering how 
he might make the most of his success. 
He was still comparatively young. He 
had years of strength before him. He 
would rise. He would not easily be 
satisfied. The times were troubled, oppor- 
tunities many, fools many ; bold men with 
brains and hands few. 

At the same time he knew that he could 
be sure of nothing until Lusigny was 


20 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


actually his, and he spent the next few 
days in considerable suspense. But no 
hitch occurred. The vicomte made the 
necessary communications to him ; and 
men in his own pay informed him of dis- 
positions ordered by the governor of 
Lusigny which left him in no doubt that 
the loser intended to pay his debt. 

It was, therefore, with a heart already 
gay with anticipation that the Captain 
rode out of Cr£ance two hours before mid- 
night on an evening eight days later. The 
night was dark, but he knew the road well. 
He had with him a powerful force, com- 
posed in part of thirty of his own garri- 
son, bold, hardy fellows, and in part of six 
score horsemen, lent him by the governor 
of Montauban. As the vicomte had 
undertaken to withdraw, under some pre- 
tense or other, one-half of his command, 
and to have one of the gates opened by a 
trusty hand, the captain trotted along in 
excellent spirits, and stopped to scan with 
approval the dark line of his troopers as 
they plodded past him, the jingle of their 
swords and corselets ringing sweet music 
in his ears. He looked for an easy 
victory ; but it was not any slight misad- 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


21 


venture that would rob him of his prey. 
As his company wound on by the river- 
side, their accouterments reflected in the 
stream, or passed into the black shadow 
of the olive grove which stands a mile to 
the east of Lusigny, he felt little doubt of 
the success of his enterprise. 

Treachery apart, that is; and of 
treachery there was no sign. The troopers 
had scarcely halted under the last clump 
of trees before a figure detached itself 
from one of the largest trunks, and ad- 
vanced to their leader’s rein. The cap- 
tain saw with surprise that it was the 
vicomte himself. For a second he 
thought something had gone wrong, but 
the young noble’s first words reassured 
him. “ It is all right,” M. de Lanthenon 
whispered, as the captain bent down to 
him. “ I have kept my word, and I 
think that there will be no resistance. 
The planks for crossing the moat lie oppo- 
site the gate. Knock thrice at the latter, 
and it will be opened. There are not 
fifty armed men in the place.” 

“ Good ! ” the captain answered, in the 
same cautious tone. “ But you 

“ I am believed to be elsewhere, and 


22 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


must be gone. I have far to ride to- 
night. Farewell.” 

“ Till we meet again,” the captain 
answered ; and with that his ally glided 
away and was lost in the darkness. A 
cautious word set the troop again in 
motion, and a very few minutes saw them 
standing on the edge of the moat, the 
outline of the gateway tower looming 
above them, a shade darker than the 
wrack of clouds which overhead raced 
silently across the sky. A moment of 
suspense, while one and another shivered 
— for there is that in a night attack which 
touches the nerves of the stoutest — and 
the planks were found, and as quietly as 
possible laid across the moat. This was 
so successfully done that it evoked no 
challenge, and the captain crossing 
quickly with some picked men stood 
almost in the twinkling of an eye under 
the shadow of the gateway. Still no 
sound was heard save the hurried breath- 
ing of those at his elbow or the stealthy 
tread of others crossing. Cautiously he 
knocked three times and waited. The 
third rap had scarcely sounded, how- 
ever, before the gate rolled silently 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 23 

open, and he sprang in, followed by his 
men. 

So far so good. A glance at the empty 
street and the porter’s pale face told him 
at once that the vicomte had kept his 
word. But he was too old a soldier to 
take anything for granted, and forming 
up his men as quickly as they entered, he 
allowed no one to advance until all were 
inside, and then, his trumpet sounding a 
wild note of defiance, his force sprang 
forward in two compact bodies, and in a 
moment the town awoke to find itself in 
the hands of the enemy. 

As the vicomte had promised, there 
was no resistance. In the small keep a 
score of men did indeed run to arms, but 
only to lay them down without striking a 
blow when they became aware of the 
force opposed to them. Their leader, 
sullenly acquiescing, gave up his sword 
and the keys of the town to the victorious 
captain, who, as he sat his horse in the 
middle of the market-place, giving his 
orders and sending off riders with the 
news, already saw himself in fancy 
governor of a province and Knight of the 
Holy Ghost. 


24 


THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 


As the red light of the torches fell on 
steel caps and polished hauberks, on the 
serried ranks of pikemen, and the circle 
of white-faced townsmen, the picturesque 
old square looked doubly picturesque. 
Every five minutes, with a clatter of iron 
on the rough pavement and a shower of 
sparks, a horseman sprang away to tell 
the news at Montauban or Cahors ; and 
every time that this occurred, the captain, 
astride on his charger, felt a new sense of 
power and triumph. 

Suddenly the low murmur of voices 
was broken by a new sound, the hurried 
clang of hoofs, not departing but arriving. 
There was something in the noise which 
made the captain prick his ears, and 
secured for the messenger a speedy pas- 
sage through the crowd. Even at the 
last the man did not spare his horse, but 
spurring to the captain’s side, then and 
then only sprang to the ground. His 
face was pale, his eyes were bloodshot. 
His right arm was bound up in blood- 
stained cloths. With an oath of amaze- 
ment, the captain recognized the officer 
whom he had left in charge of Cr£ance 
and thundered out, “ What is it?” 










THE KING'S STRATAGEM. 25 

“ They have got Creance ! ” the man 
gasped, reeling as he spoke. “ They have 
got Creance ! ” 

“Who ? ” the captain shrieked, his face 
purple with rage. 

“ The little man of Bearn ! He 
assaulted it five hundred strong an hour 
after you left, and had the gate down 
before we could fire a dozen shots. We 
did what we could, but we were but one 
to seven. I swear, captain, we did all we 
could. Look at this ! ” 

Almost black in the face, the captain 
swore another frightful oath. It was not 
only that he saw governorship and 
honors vanish like will-o’-the-wisps, but 
that he saw even more quickly that he 
had made himself the laughing-stock of 
a kingdom! And he had. To this day 
among the stories which the southern 
French love to tell of the prowess and 
astuteness of the great Henry, there is 
none more frequently told, or more fre- 
quently laughed over, than that of the 
famous exchange of Creance for Lusigny. 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF 
COURT. 


IGHTY-EIGHT when he died! 
That is a great age,” I said. 

“Yes indeed. But he was a 
very clever man, was Robert Evans, 
Court, and brewed good beer,” my com- 
panion answered. “His home-brewed 
was known, I am certain, for more than 
ten miles. You will have heard of his 
body-birds, sir?” 

“ His body-birds?” I exclaimed. 

“Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans 
Court’s body-birds!” And he looked at 
me, quick to suspect that his English was 
deficient. He had learned it in part from 
books; and hence the curious mixture I 
presently noted of Welsh idioms and for- 
mal English phrases. It was his light 
trap in which I was being helped on my 
journey, and his genial chat which was 
lightening that journey; which lay 

26 



THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 27 

through a part of Carnarvonshire usually 
traversed only by wool merchants and 
cattle dealers — a country of upland farms 
swept by the sea breezes, where English 
is not spoken even now by one person in 
a hundred, and even at inns and post- 
offices you get only “Dim Sassenach ,” for 
your answer. “Do you not say,” he 
went on, “body-birds in English? Oh, 
but to be sure, it is in the Bible!” with a 
sudden recovery of his self-esteem. 

“To be sure!” I replied hurriedly. 
“Of course it is ! But as to Mr. Robert 
Evans, cannot you tell me the story?” 

“I’ll be bound there is no man in North 
or South Wales, or Carnarvonshire, that 
could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of 
whom you shall hear presently, was aunt 
to me. You see Robert Evans” — and my 
friend settled himself in his seat and pre- 
pared to go slowly up the long, steep hill 
of Rhiw which rose before us — “Robert 
Evans lived in an old house called Court, 
near the sea, very windy and lonesome. 
He was a warm man. He had Court 
from his father, and he had mortgages, 
and as many as four lawsuits. But he 
was unlucky in his family. He had years 


28 the BODY-BIRDS OF COURT 

back three sons who helped on the farm, 
or at times fished; for there is a cove at 
Court, and good boats. Of these sons 
only one was married — to a Scotchwoman 
from Bristol, I have heard, who had had 
a husband before, a merchant captain ; 
and she brought with her to Court a 
daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. 
Well, of those three fine men, there was 
not one left in a year. They were out 
fishing in a boat together, and Evan — 
that was the married one — was steering 
as they came into the cove on a spring 
tide running very high with a south wind. 
He steered a little to one side — not more 
than six inches, upon my honor — and 
pah ! in an hour their bodies were thrown 
up on Robert Evans’ land just like bits of 
seaweed. But that was not all. Evan’s 
wife was on the beach at the time, so 
near she could have thrown a stone into 
the boat. They do say that before she 
was pining away at Court — it was bleak 
and lonesome and cold, in the winters, 
and she had been used to live in the 
towns. But, however, she never held up 
her head after Evan was drowned. She 
took to her bed, and died in the short 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 29 

month. And then of all at Court there 
were left only Robert Evans and the 
child Peggy.” 

"How old was she then?” I asked. He 
had paused, and was looking thoughtfully 
before, as striving, it would seem, to make 
the situation quite clear to himself. 

“She was twelve, and the old man 
eighty and more. She was in no way 
related to him, you will remember, but 
he had her stop, and let her want for 
nothing that did not cost money. He was 
very careful of money, as was right. It 
was that made him the man he was. But 
there were some who would have given 
money to be rid of her. Year in and 
year out they never let the old man rest 
but that he should send her to service at 
least — though her father had been the 
captain of a big ship ; and if Robert Evans 
had not been a stiff man of his years, they 
would have had their will.” 

"But who ” 

By a gesture he stopped the words on 
my lips as there rose mysteriously out of 
the silence about us a sound of wings, a 
chorus of shrill cries. A hundred white 
forms swept overhead, and fell a white 


30 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

cluster about something in a distant field. 
They were sea gulls. “Just those same!” 
he said proudly, jerking his whip in their 
direction — “body-birds. When the news 
that Robert Evans’ sons were drowned 
got about, there was a pretty uprising in 
Carnarvonshire. There seemed to be 
Evanses where there had never been 
Evanses before. As many as twenty 
walked in the funeral, and you may be 
sure that afterward they did not leave the 
old man to himself. The Llewellyn 
Evanses were foremost. They had had a 
lawsuit with Court, but made it up now. 
Besides there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan 
Bevan, and the three Evanses of Nant, 
and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of 
Sarn, and many more, who were all for- 
ward to visit Court and be friendly with 
old Gwen Madoc, Robert’s housekeeper. 
I am told they could look black at one an- 
other, b.ut in this they were all in one tale, 
that the foreign child should be sent 
away ; and at times one and another would 
give her a rough word.” 

“She must have had a bad time,” I 
observed. 

“You may say that. But she stayed, 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 31 

and it was wonderful how strong and 
handsome she grew up, where her mother 
had just pined away. The sailors said it 
was her love of the sea ; and I have heard 
that people who live inland about here 
come to think of nothing but the land — 
it is certain that they are good at a bar- 
gain — while the fishermen who live with a 
great space before them are finer men, I 
have heard, in their minds as well as their 
bodies; and Peggy bach grew up like 
them, free and open and upstanding, 
though she lived inland. When she was 
in trouble she would run down to the sea, 
where the salt spray washed away her 
tears and the wind blew her hair, that 
was of the color of seaweed, into a tangle. 
She was never so happy as when she was 
climbing the rocks among the sea gulls, or 
else sitting with her books at the cove 
where the farm people would not go for 
fear of hearing the church bells that bring 
bad luck. Books? Oh, yes, indeed ! next 
to the sea she was fond of books. There 
were many volumes, I have been told, that 
were her mother’s; then Robert Evans, 
though he was a Wesleyan, went to church 
because there was no Wesleyan chapel, 


32 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

the Calvinistic Methodists being in 
strength about here; and the minister 
lent her many English books and be- 
friended her. And I have heard that 
once, when the Llewellyn Evanses had 
been about the girl, he spoke to them so 
that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw 
hill that night, but led the horse ; and I 
think it may be true, for they were Cal- 
vinists. Still, he was a good man, and I 
know that many Calvinists walked in his 
funeral.” 

“ Requiescat in pace,” said I. 

‘‘Eh! Well, I don’t know how that 
may be,” he replied, ‘‘but you must 
understand that all this time the Llewellyn 
Evanses, and the Evanses of Nant, and 
the others would be over at Court once 
or twice a week, so that all the neighbor- 
hood called them Robert Evans’ body- 
birds; and when they were there Peggy 
McNeill would be having an ill time, 
since even the old man would be hard to 
her; and more so as he grew older. But, 
however, there was a better time coming, 
or so it seemed at first, the beginning of 
which was through Peter Rees’ lobster 
pots. He was a great friend of hers. She 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 33 

would go out with him to take up his 
pots — oh ! it might be two or three times 
a week. So it happened one day, when 
they had pushed off from the beach, and 
Peggy was steering, that old Rees stopped 
rowing on a sudden. 

“‘Why don’t you go on, Peter?’ said 

Peggy- 

“ ‘Bide a bit,’ said old Rees. 

“ ‘What have you forgotten?’ said she, 
looking about in the bottom of the boat. 
For she knew what he used very well. 

“ ‘Nought,’ said he. But all the same 
he began to put the boat about in a 
stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, 
and yet loath to lose a shilling. And so, 
when Peggy looked up, what should she 
see but a gentleman — whom Rees had 
perceived, you will understand — stepping 
into the boat, and Peter Rees not daring 
to look her in the face because he knew 
well that she would never go out with 
strangers. 

“Of course the young gentleman 
thought no harm, but said gayly, ‘Thank 
you ! I am just in time.’ And what 
should he do, but go aft and sit down on 
the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees 


34 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

about the weather and the pots. And 
presently he said to her, ‘I suppose you 
are used to steering, my girl?' 

“ ‘Yes/ said Peggy, but very grave and 
quiet-like, so that if he had not deter- 
mined that she was old Rees’ daughter he 
would have taken notice of it. But she 
was wearing a short frock that she used 
for the fishing, and was wet with getting 
into the boat, moreover. 

“‘Will you please to hold my hat a 
minute,’ he said, and with that he put it 
in her lap while he looked for a piece of 
string with which to fasten it to his 
button. Well, she said nothing, but her 
cheeks were scarlet, and by and by, when 
he had called her ‘my girl’ two or three 
times more — not roughly, but just off- 
hand, taking her for a fisher-girl — Peter 
Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or 
no shilling. 

“‘You mustn’t speak that fashion to 
her, master,’ he said gruffly. 

“‘What?’ said the gentleman, looking 
up. He was surprised, and no wonder, at 
the tone of the man. 

“‘You mustn’t speak like that to Miss 
McNeill, Court,’ repeated old Rees more 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT 35 

roughly than before. ‘You are to under- 
stand she is not a common girl, but like 
yourself.’ 

“The young gentleman turned and 
looked at her just once, short and sharp, 
and I am told that his face was as red as 
hers when their eyes met. ‘I beg Miss 
McNeill’s pardon — humbly,’ he said, tak- 
ing off his hat grandly, yet as if he meant 
it too; ‘I was under a great misappre- 
hension.’ 

“After that you may believe they did 
not enjoy the row much. There was 
scarcely a word said by anyone until they 
came ashore again. The visitor, to the 
great joy of Peter, who was looking for a 
sixpence, gave him half a crown ; and then 
walked away with the young lady, side by 
side with her, but very stiff and silent. 
However, just as they were parting, Peter 
could see that he said something, having 
his hat in his hand the while, and that 
Miss Peggy, after standing and listening, 
bowed as grand as might be. Upon 
which they separated for that time. 

“But two things came of this ; first, that 
everyone began to call her Miss McNeill, 
Court, which was not at all to the pleas- 


36 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

ure of the Llewellyn Evanses. And then 
that, whenever the gentleman, who was a 
painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell’s of the 
shop, would meet her, he would stop and 
say a few words, and more as the time 
went on. Presently there came some wet 
weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed 
for his use books from her, which had her 
name within ; and later he sent for a box 
of books from London, and then the lend- 
ing was on the other side. So it was not 
long before people began to see how 
things were, and to smile when the gentle- 
man treated old Robert Evans at the 
Newydd Inn. The fishermen, when he 
was out with them, would tack so that he 
might see the smoke of Court over the 
cliffs ; and there was no more Peggy bach to 
be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or 
running wild among the rocks, but a very 
sedate young lady who yet did not seem 
to be unhappy. 

“The old man was ailing in his limbs at 
this time, but his mind was as clear as 
ever, and his grip of the land as tight. 
He could not bear, now that his sons 
were dead, that anyone should come after 
him. I am thinking that he would be 


YOU HAVE BEEN COURTING.’' 





THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT . 37 

taking everyone for a body-bird. Still 
the family were forward with presents and 
such like, and helped him perhaps about 
the farm ; so that though there was talk 
in the village, no one could say what will 
he would make. 

“However, one day toward winter Miss 
Peggy came in late from a walk, and found 
the old man very cross. ‘Where have 
you been?’ he cried angrily. Then with- 
out any warning, ‘You have been court- 
ing,’ he said, ‘with that fine gentleman 
from the shop?’ 

“ ‘Well,’ my lady replied, putting a 
brave face upon it, as was her way, ‘and 
what then, grandfather? I am not 
ashamed of it.’ 

“‘You ought to be!’ he cried, banging 
his stick upon the floor. ‘Do you think 
that he will marry you?’ 

“ ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied stoutly. ‘He 
has told you so to-day, I know.’ 

“Robert Evans laughed, but his laugh 
was not a pleasant one. ‘You are right,’ 
he said. ‘He has told me. He was very 
forward to tell me. He thought I was 
going to leave you my money. But I am 
not ! Mind you that, my girl,’ 


38 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

“‘Very well,’ she answered, white and 
red by turns. 

“ ‘You will remember that you are no 
relation of mine!’ he went on viciously, 
for he had grown very crabbed of late. 
‘And I am not going to leave you money. 
He is after my money. He is nothing 
but a fortune-catcher!’ 

“‘He is not!’ she exclaimed, as hot as 
fire, and began to put on her hat again. 

“‘Very well! We shall see!’ answered 
Robert Evans. ‘Do you tell him what I 
say, and see if he will marry you. Go ! 
Go now, girl, and you need not come 
back! You will get nothing by staying 
here !’ he cried, for what with his jealousy 
and the mention of money he was furious 
— ‘not a penny! You had better be off 
at once!’ 

“She did not answer for a minute or so, 
but she seemed to change her mind about 
going, for she laid down her hat, and went 
about the house place getting tea ready — 
and no doubt her fingers trembled a little 
— until the old man cried, ‘Well, why 
don’t you go? You will get nothing by 
staying.’ 

“ ‘I shall stay to take care of you all 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 39 

the same,’ she answered quietly. ‘You 
need not leave me anything, and then — 
and then I shall know whether you are 
right.’ 

“ ‘Do you mean it?’ asked he sharply, 
after looking at her in silence for a 
moment. 

“ ‘Yes,’ said she. 

“ ‘Then it’s a bargain !’ cried Robert 
Evans — ‘it’s a bargain !’ And he said not 
a word more about it, but took his tea 
from her and talked of the Llewellyn 
Evanses, who had been to pay him a visit 
that day. It seemed, however, as if the 
matter had upset him, for he had to be 
helped to bed, and complained a good 
deal, neither of which things were usual 
with him. 

“Well, it is not unlikely that the young 
lady promised herself to tell her lover all 
about it next day, and looked to hear 
many times over from his own lips that it 
was not her money he wanted. But this 
was not to be, for early the next morning 
Gwen Madoc was at her door. 

“ ‘You are to get up, miss,’ she said. 
‘The master wants you to go to London 
by the first train.’ 


40 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 


“‘To London!’ cried Peggy, very 
much astonished. ‘Is he ill? Is any- 
thing the matter, Gwen?’ 

“ ‘No,’ answered the old woman very 
short. ‘It is just that.’ 

“And when the girl, having dressed 
hastily, came down to Robert Evans’ 
room, she found that this was pretty 
nearly all she was to learn. ‘You will go 
to Mrs. Richard Evans, who lives at 
Islington,’ he said, as if he had been 
thinking about it all night. ‘She is my 
second cousin, and will find house room 
for you, and make no charge. A tele- 
gram shall be sent to her this morning. 
To-morrow you will take this packet to 
the address upon it, and the next day a 
packet will be returned to you, which 
you will bring back to me. I am not well 
to-day, and I want to have the matter 
settled and off my mind, Peggy.’ 

“ ‘But could not someone else go, if 
you are not well?’ she objected, ‘and I 
will stop and take care of you.’ 

“He grew very angry at that. ‘Do as 
you are bidden, girl,’ he said. ‘I shall 
see the doctor to-day, and for the rest, 
Gwen can do for me. I am well enough, 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 4 1 

Do you look to the papers. Richard 
Evans owes me money, and will make no 
charge for your living.’ 

“So Miss Peggy had her breakfast, and 
in a wonderfully short time, as it seemed 
to her, was on the way to London, with 
plenty of leisure on her hands for think- 
ing — very likely for doubting and fearing 
as well. She had not seen her sweetheart, 
that was one thing. She had been dis- 
patched in a hurry, that was another. 
And then, to be sure, the big town was 
strange to her. 

“However, nothing happened there, I 
may tell you. But on the third morning 
she received a short note from Gwen 
Madoc, and suddenly rose from breakfast 
with Mrs. Richard, her face very white. 
There was news in the letter — news of 
which all the neighborhood for miles 
round Court was by that time full. 
Robert Evans, if you will believe it, was 
dead. After ailing for a few hours he 
had died, with only Gwen Madoc to 
smooth his pillow. 

“It was late when she reached the 
nearest station to Court on her way back, 
and found a pony trap waiting for her. 


42 THE BODY- BIRDS OF COURT. 

She was stepping into it when Mr. Griffith 
Hughes, the lawyer, saw her, and came 
up to speak. 

'“I am sorry to have bad news for you, 
Miss McNeill,’ he said in a low voice, for 
he was a kind man, and what with the 
shock and the long journey she was look- 
ing very pale. 

“ 'Oh, yes!’ she answered, with a sort 
of weary surprise; ‘I know it already. 
That is why I am come home — to Court, 
I mean.’ 

“He saw that she was thinking only of 
Robert Evans’ death, which was not what 
was in his mind. 'It is about the will,’ he 
said in a whisper, though he need not 
have been so careful, for everyone in the 
neighborhood had learned all about it 
from Gwen Madoc. ‘It is a cruel will. I 
would not have made it for him, my dear. 
He has left Court to the Llewellyn 
Evanses, and the money between the 
Evanses of Nant and the Evan Bevans.’ 

“ ‘It is quite right,’ she answered, so 
calmly that he stared. ‘My grandfather 
explained it to me. I fully understood 
that I was not to be in the will.’ 

“Mr. Hughes looked more and more 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 43 

puzzled. ‘Oh, but,’ he replied, ‘it is not 
so bad as that. Your name is in the will. 
He has laid it upon those who get the 
land and money to provide for you — to 
settle a proper income upon you. And 
you may depend upon me for doing my 
best to have his wishes carried out, my 
dear.’ 

“The young lady turned very red, and 
raised her eyes sharply. 

“‘Who are to provide for me?’ she 
asked. 

“ ‘The three families who divide the 
estate,’ he said. 

“ ‘And are they obliged to do so?’ 

“‘Well — no,’ said he unwillingly. ‘I 
am not sure that they are exactly obliged. 
But no doubt ’ 

“ ‘I doubt very much,’ she answered, 
taking him up with a smile. And then 
she shook hands with him and drove 
away, leaving him wondering at her 
courage. 

“Well, you may suppose it was a dreary 
house to which she came home. Mr. 
Griffith Hughes, who was executor, had 
been before the Llewellyn Evanses in tak- 
ing possession, so that, besides a lad or 


44 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

two in the kitchen, there were only Gwen 
Madoc and the servant there, and they 
seemed to have very little to tell her 
about the death. When she had heard 
what they had to say, and they were all 
on their way to bed, ‘Gwen,’ she said 
softly, ‘I think I should like to see him.’ 

“‘So you shall, to-morrow, honey,’ 
answered the old woman. ‘But do you 
know, bachy that he has left you nothing?’ 
and she held up her candle suddenly, so 
as to throw the light on the girl’s tired 
face. 

“ ‘Oh !’ she answered, with a shudder, 
‘how can you taik about that now?’ But 
presently she had another question ready. 
‘Have you seen Mr. Venmore since — 
since my grandfather’s death, Gwen?’ she 
asked timidly. 

“ ‘Yes, indeed, bach ,’ answered the 
housekeeper. ‘I met him at the door of 
the shop this morning. I told him where 
you were, and that you would be back to- 
night. And about the will, moreover.’ 

“The girl stopped at her own door and 
snuffed her candle. Gwen Madoc went 
slowly up the next flight, groaning over 
the steepness of the stairs. Then she 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 45 

turned to say good-night. The girl was 
at her side again, her eyes shining in the 
light of the two candles. 

“ ‘Oh, Gwen,’ she whispered breath- 
lessly, ‘didn’t he say anything?’ 

“ ‘Not a word, bach answered the old 
woman, stroking her hair tenderly. ‘He 
just went into the house in a hurry.’ 

“Miss Peggy went into her room much 
in the same way. No doubt she would 
be telling herself a great many times over 
before she slept that he would come and 
see her in the morning; and in the morn- 
ing she would be saying, ‘He will come 
in the afternoon;’ and in the afternoon, 
‘He will come in the evening.’ But even- 
ing came, and darkness, and still he did 
not appear. Then she could endure it no 
longer. She let herself out of the front 
door, which there was no one now to use 
but herself, and with a shawl over her 
head ran all the way down to the shop. 
There was no light in his window upstairs : 
but at the back door stood Mrs. Camp- 
bell, looking after someone who had just 
left her. 

“The girl came, strangely shrinking at 
the last moment, into the ring of light 


46 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

about the door. ‘Why, Miss McNeill!’ 
cried the other, starting visibly at sight of 
her. ‘Is it you, honey? And are you 
alone?’ 

“‘Yes; and I cannot stop. But oh, 
Mrs. Campbell, where is Mr. Venmore?’ 

“‘I know no more than yourself, my 
dear,’ said the good woman reluctantly. 
'He went from here yesterday on a sud- 
den — to take the train, I understood.’ 

“‘Yesterday? When? At what time, 
please?’ asked the young lady. There 
was a fear, which she had been putting 
from her all day. It was getting a foot- 
ing now. 

“ ‘Well, it would be about midday. I 
know it was just after Gwen Madoc called 
in about the ’ 

“But the girl was gone. It was not to 
Mrs. Campbell she could make a moan. 
It was only the night wind that caught 
the ‘Oh, cruel! cruel!’ which broke from 
her as she went up the hill. Whether she 
slept that night at all I am not able to 
say. Only that when it was dawn she 
was out upon the cliffs, her face very 
white and sad-looking. The fishermen 
who were up early, going out with the ebb, 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 47 

saw her at times walking fast and then 
standing still and looking seaward. But I 
do not know what she was thinking, only 
I should fancy that the gulls had a different 
cry for her now, and it is certain that 
when she had returned and came down 
into the parlor at Court for the funeral, 
there were none of the Evanses could 
look her in the face with comfort. 

“They were all there, of course. Mr. 
Llewellyn Evans — he was an elderly man, 
with a gray beard like a bird’s nest, and 
very thick lips — was sitting with his wife 
on the horsehair sofa. The Evanses of 
Nant, who were young men with lank 
faces and black hair combed upward, were 
by the door. The Evan Bevans were at 
the table ; and there were others, besides 
Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was undoing 
some papers when she entered. 

“He rose and shook hands with her, 
marking pitifully the dark hollows under 
her eyes, and inwardly confirming his 
resolution to get her a substantial settle- 
ment. Then he hesitated, looking doubt- 
fully at the others. ‘We are going to 
read the will before the funeral instead of 
afterward,’ he said. 


48 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 


“ ‘Oh !’ she answered, taken aback — for 
in truth she had forgotten all about the 
will. ‘I did not know. I will go, and 
come back later.’ 

‘“No, indeed!’ cried Mrs. Llewellyn 
Evans, ‘you had better stop and hear the 
will — though no relation, to be sure.’ 

“But at that moment Gwen Madoc 
came in, and peered round with a grim air 
of importance. ‘Maybe someone,’ she 
said in a low voice, ‘would like to take a 
last look at the poor master?’ 

“But no one moved. They sighed and 
shook their heads at one another as if 
they would like to do so — but no one 
moved. They were anxious, you see, to 
hear the will. Only Peggy, who had 
turned to go out, said, ‘Yes, Gwen, I 
should,’ and slipped out with the old 
woman. 

“ ‘There is nothing to keep us now?’ said 
Mr. Hughes briskly when the door was 
closed again. And everyone nodding 
assent the lawyer went on to read the will, 
which was not a long one. It was re- 
ceived with a murmur of satisfaction, and 
much use of pocket-handkerchiefs. 

“ ‘Very fair!’ said Mr. Llewellyn Evans. 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 49 

4 He was a clever man, our old friend.’ 
All the legatees murmured after him 
‘Very fair!* and a word went round about 
the home-brewed, and Robert Evans’ 
recipe for it. Then Llewellyn, who 
thought he ought to be taking the lead 
at Court now, said it was about time to 
be going to church. 

“ ‘There is one matter,’ put in Mr. 
Griffith Hughes, ‘which I think ought to 
be settled while we are all together. 
You see that there is a — what I may call 
a charge on the three main portions of 
the property in favor of Miss McNeill.’ 

“ ‘Indeed, but what is that you are say- 
ing?’ cried Llewellyn sharply. ‘Do you 
mean that there is a rent charge?’ 

“ ‘Not exactly a rent charge,’ said the 
lawyer. 

“ ‘No!’ cried Llewellyn with a twinkle 
in his eyes. ‘Nor any obligation in law, 
sir?’ 

“ ‘Well, no,’ assented Mr. Hughes 
grudgingly. 

“ ‘Then,’ said Llewellyn Evans, getting 
up and putting his hands in his pockets, 
while he winked at the others, ‘we will 
talk of that another time.’ 


50 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

“But Mr. Hughes said, ‘No!’ He was 
a kind man, and very anxious to do the 
best for the girl, but he somewhat lost 
his temper. ‘No!’ he said, growing red. 
‘You will observe, if you please, Mr. 
Evans, that the testator says, “Forthwith 
— forthwith.” So that, as sole executor, 
it is my duty to ask you to state your in- 
tentions now.’ 

“ ‘Well, indeed, then,’ said Llewellyn, 
changing his face to a kind of blank, ‘I 
have no intentions. I think that the 
family has done more than enough for the 
girl already.’ 

“And he would say no otherwise. Nor 
was it to any purpose that the lawyer 
looked at Mrs. Llewellyn. She was 
examining the furniture, and feeling the 
stuffing of the sofa, and did not seem to 
hear. He could make nothing of the three 
Evanses, Nant. They all cried, ‘Yes, 
indeed!’ to what Llewellyn said. Only 
the Evan Bevans remained, and he turned 
to them in despair. 

“ ‘I am sure,’ he said, addressing him- 
self to them, ‘that you will do something 
to carry out the testator’s wishes? Your 
share under the will, Mr. Bevan, will 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 51 

amount to three hundred a year. This 
young lady has nothing — no relations, no 
home. May I take it that you will settle 
— say fifty pounds a year upon her? It 
need only be for her life.’ 

“Mr. Bevan fidgeted under this appeal. 
His wife answered it. ‘Certainly not, 
Mr. Hughes. If it were twenty pounds 
now, once for all, or even twenty-five — 
and Llewellyn and my nephews would 
say the same — I think we might manage 
that?’ 

“But Llewellyn shook his head obsti- 
nately. ‘I have said I have no inten- 
tions, and I am a man of my word !’ he 
answered. ‘Let the girl go out to service. 
It is what we have always wanted her to 
do. Here are my nephews. They won’t 
mind a young housekeeper.’ 

“Well, they all laughed at this except 
Mr. Hughes, who gathered up his papers 
looking very black, and not thinking of 
future clients. Llewellyn, however, did 
not care a bit for that, but walked to the 
bell, masterful-like, and rang it. ‘Tell the 
undertaker,’ he said to the servant, ‘that 
we are ready.’ 

“It was as if the words had been a sig- 


52 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

nal, for they were followed almost imme- 
diately by an outcry overhead and quick 
running upon the stairs. The legatees 
looked uncomfortably at the carpet: the 
lawyer was blacker than before. He said 
to himelf, ‘Now that poor child has 
fainted!’ The confusion seemed to last 
some minutes. Then the door was 
opened, not by the undertaker, but by 
Gwen Madoc. The mourners rose with a 
sigh of relief ; to their surprise she passed 
by even Llewellyn, and with a frightened 
face walked across to the lawyer. She 
whispered something in his ear. 

“ ‘What !’ he cried, starting back a pace 
from her, and speaking so that the wine- 
glasses on the table rattled again. ‘Do 
you know what you are saying, woman?’ 

‘“It is true,’ she answered, half crying, 
‘and no fault indeed of mine neither.’ 

Gwen added more in quick, short sen- 
tences, which the family, strain their ears 
as they might, could not overhear. 

“ ‘I will come! I will come!’ cried the 
lawyer. He waved his hand to them as a 
sign to make ropm for her to pass out. 
Then he turned to them, a queer look up- 
on his face ; it was not triumph altogether, 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT . 53 

for there was discomfiture and apprehen- 
sion in it as well. ‘You will believe me, 
he said, ‘that I am as much taken aback 
as yourselves — that till this moment I 
have been honestly as much in the dark as 
anyone. It seems — so I am told — that 
our old friend is not dead.’ 

“‘What!’ cried Llewellyn in his turn. 
‘What do you mean?’ and he raised his 
black-gloved hands as in refutation. 

“ ‘What I say,’ replied Mr. Hughes 
patiently. ‘I hear — wonderful as it 
sounds — that he is not dead. Something 
about a trance, I believe — a mistake 
happily discovered in time. I tell you 
all I know; and however it comes about, 
it is clear we ought to be glad that Mr. 
Robert Evans is spared to us.’ 

“With that he was glad to escape from 
the room. I am told that their faces 
were very strange to see. There was a 
long silence. Llewellyn was the first to 
speak. He swore a big oath and banged 
his great hand upon the table. ‘I don’t 
believe it!’ he cried. ‘I don’t believe it! 
It is a trick !’ 

“But as he spoke the door opened be- 
hind him, and he and all turned to see 


54 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT . 

what they had never thought to see, I am 
sure. They had come to walk in Robert 
Evans’ funeral; and here was the gaunt, 
stooping form of Robert Evans himself 
coming in, with an arm of Gwen Madoc 
on one side and of Miss Peggy on the 
other — Robert Evans beyond doubt 
alive. Behind him were the lawyer and 
Dr. Jones, a smile on their lips, and three 
or four women half frightened, half won- 
dering. 

“The old man was pale, and seemed to 
totter a little, but when the doctor would 
have placed a chair for him, he declined 
it, and stood gazing about him, wonder- 
fully composed for a man just risen from 
his coffin. He had all his old grim aspect 
as he looked upon the family. Llew- 
ellyn’s declaration was still in their ears. 
They could find not a word to say either 
of joy or grief. 

“ ‘Well, indeed,’ said Robert, with a dry 
chuckle, ‘have none of you a word to 
throw at me? I am a ghost, I suppose? 
Ha!’ he exclaimed, as his eye fell on the 
papers which Mr. Hughes had left upon 
the table, ‘so ! so ! That is why you are 
not overjoyed at seeing me. You have 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 55 

been reading my will. Well, Llewellyn ! 
Have not you a word to say to me now 
you know for what I had got y 0 u down?’ 

“At that Llewellyn found his tongue, 
and the others chimed in finely. Only 
there was something in the old man’s 
manner that they did not like; and pres- 
ently, when they had all told him how 
glad they were to see him again — just for 
all the world as if he had been ill for a 
few days — Robert Evans turned again to 
Llewellyn. 

“‘You had fixed what you would do 
for my girl here, I suppose?’ he said, 
patting her shoulder gently, at which the 
family winced. ‘It was a hundred a year 
you promised to settle, you know. You 
will have arranged all that.’ 

“Lewellyn looked stealthily at Mr. 
Hughes, who was standing at Robert’s 
elbow, and muttered that they had not 
reached that stage. 

“‘What?’ cried the old man sharply. 
‘ How was that?’ 

“‘I was intending,’ Llewellyn began 
lamely, ‘to settle ’ 

“ ‘You were intending!’ Robert Evans 
burst forth in a voice so changed that 


56 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

they all started back. ‘You are a liar! 
You were intending to settle nothing! I 
know it well! I knew it long ago ! Noth- 
ing, I say! As for you,’ he went on, 
wheeling furiously round upon the 
Evanses of Nant, ‘you knew my wishes. 
What were you going to do for her? 
What, I say? Speak, you hobbledehoys!’ 

“For they were backing from him in 
absolute fear of his passion, looking at 
one another or at the sullen face of 
Llewellyn Evans, or anywhere save at 
him. At length the eldest ' blurted out, 
‘Whatever Llew.ellyn meant to do we 
were going to do, sir.’ 

“ ‘You speak the truth there,’ cried old 
Robert bitterly; ‘for that was nothing, 
you know. Very well! I promise you 
that what Llewellyn gets of my property 
you shall get too — and it will be nothing! 
You, Bevan,’ and he turned himself 
toward the Evan Bevans, who were shak- 
ing in their shoes, ‘ I am told, did offer to 
do something for my girl.’ 

“‘Yes, dear Robert,’ cried Mrs. Bevan, 
radiant and eager, ‘we did indeed.’ 

“ ‘So I hear. Well, when I make my 
next will, I will take care to set you down 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT, 57 

for just so much as you proposed to give 
her! Peggy, bach ,’ he continued, turning 
from the chapfallen lady, and putting into 
the girl’s hands the will which the lawyer 
had given him, ‘tear up this rubbish! 
Tear it up! Now let us have something 
to eat in the other room. What, Llew- 
ellyn, no appetite?’ 

“But the family did not stay even to 
partake of the home-brewed. They were 
out of the house, I am told, before the 
coffin and the undertaker’s men. There 
was big talking among them, as they 
went, of a conspiracy and a lunatic asy- 
lum. But though, to be sure, it was a won- 
derful recovery, and the doctor and Mr- 
Hughes, as they drove away after dinner, 
were very friendly together — which may 
have been only the home-brewed — at any 
rate the sole outcome of Llewellyn’s talk- 
ing and inquiries was that everyone 
laughed very much, and Robert Evans’ 
name for a clever man was known beyond 
Carnarvon. 

“Of course it would be open house at 
Court that day, with plenty of eating and 
drinking and coming and going. But 
toward five o'clock the place grew quiet 


58 THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 

again. The visitors had gone home, and 
Gwen Madoc was upstairs. The old man 
was sleeping in his chair opposite the 
settle, and Miss Peggy was sitting on the 
window-seat watching him, her hands in 
her lap, her thoughts far away. Maybe 
she was trying to be really glad that the 
home, about which the cows lowed and 
the gulls screamed in the afternoon still- 
ness and made it seem home each minute, 
was hers still ; that she was not quite 
alone, nor friendless, nor poor. Maybe 
she was striving not to think of the thing 
which had been taken from her and could 
not be given back. Whatever her 
thoughts, she was aroused by some sound 
to find her eyes full of hot tears, through 
which she could dimly see that the old 
man was awake and looking at her with a 
strange expression, which disappeared as 
she became aware of it. 

“He began to speak. ‘Providence has 
been very good to us, Peggy,’ he said, with 
grim meaning. ‘It is well for you, my 
girl, that our eyes are open to see our 
kind friends as they are. There is one 
besides those who were here this morning 
that will wish he had not been so hasty.’ 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT . 59 

“She rose quickly and looked out of 
the window. ‘Don’t speak of him. Let 
us forget him,’ she pleaded, in a low tone. 

“But Robert Evans seemed to take a 
delight in the — well, the goodness of 
Providence. ‘If he had come to see you 
only once, when you were in trouble,’ he 
went on, as if he were summing up the 
case in his own mind, and she were but a 
stick or a stone, ‘we could have forgiven 
him, and I would have said you were 
right. Or even if he had written, eh?’ 

“‘Oh, yes, yes!’ sobbed the girl, her 
tears raining down her averted face. 
‘Don’t torture me! You were right and 
I was wrong — all wrong!’ 

“ ‘Well, yes, yes ! Just so. But come 
here, my girl,’ said the old man. ‘Come!’ 
he repeated imperiously, as, surprised in 
the midst of her grief, she wavered and 
hesitated, ‘sit here,’ and he pointed to the 
settle opposite to him. ‘Now, suppose I 
were to tell you he had written, and that 
the letter had been — mislaid, shall we 
say? and come somehow to my hands? 
Now, don’t get excited, girl!’ 

“‘Oh!’ cried Peggy, her hands fallen, 
her lips parted, her eyes wide and fright- 


60 THE BODY- BIRDS OF COURT. 

ened, her whole form rigid with ques- 
tioning. 

‘“Just suppose that, my dear,’ con- 
tinued Robert, ‘and that the letter were 
now before us — would you abide by its 
contents? Remember, he must have 
much to explain. Would you let me de- 
cide whether his explanation were satis- 
factory or not?’ 

“She was trembling with expectation, 
hope. But she tried to think of the 
matter calmly, to remember her lover’s 
hurried flight, the lack of word or mes- 
sage for her, her own misery. She nodded 
silently, and held out her hand. 

“He drew a letter from his pocket. 
‘You will let me see it?’ he said sus- 
piciously. 

“ ‘Oh, yes!’ she cried, and fled with it 
to the window. He watched her while 
she tore it open and read first one page 
and then another — there were but two, 
it was very short — watched her while she 
thrust it from her and looked at it as a 
whole, then drew it to her and kissed it 
again and again. 

“ ‘Wait a bit ! wait a bit !’ cried he 
testily. ‘Now, let me see it.’ 


THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT. 6 1 

“She turned upon him almost fiercely, 
holding it away behind her, as if it were 
some living thing he might hurt. ‘He 
thought he would meet me at the junc- 
tion,’ she stammered between laughing and 
crying. ‘He was going to London to see 
his sister — that she might take me in. 
And he will be here to fetch me this 
evening. There! Take it!’ and sud- 
denly remembering herself she stretched 
out her hand and gave him the letter. 

“‘You promised to abide by my de- 
cision, you know,’ said the old man 
gravely. 

“‘I will not!’ she cried impetuously. 
‘Never!’ 

“ ‘You promised,’ he said. 

“‘I don’t care! I don’t care!’ she 
replied, clasping her hands nervously. 
‘No one shall come between us.’ 

“ ‘Very well,’ said Robert Evans, ‘then 
I need not decide. But you had better 
tell Owen to take the trap to the station 
to meet your man.’ ” 


IN CUPID’S TOILS. 

I. 


HER STORY. 



LARE," I said, “ I wish that we 
had brought some better clothes, 
if it were only one frock. You 
look the oddest figure." 

And she did. She was lying head to 
head with me on the thick moss that 
clothed one part of the river bank above 
Breistolen near the Sogn Fiord. We 
were staying at Breistolen, but there was 
no moss thereabouts, nor in all the Sogn 
district, I often thought, so deep and 
soft, and so dazzling orange and white 
and crimson as that particular patch. It 
lay quite high upon the hills, and there 
were great gray bowlders peeping through 
the moss here and there, very fit to break 
your legs, if you were careless. Little 
more than a mile higher up was the 
watershed, where our river, putting away 

62 



IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


63 


with reluctance a first thought of going 
down the farther slope toward Bysberg, 
parted from its twin brother, who was 
thither bound with scores upon scores of 
puny, green-backed fishlets ; and instead, 
came down our side gliding and swishing 
and swirling faster and faster, and deeper 
and wider every hundred yards to Breis- 
tolen, full of red-speckled yellow trout, all 
half a pound apiece, and very good to eat. 

But they were not so sweet or tooth- 
some to our girlish tastes as the tawny- 
orange cloud-berries which Clare and I 
were eating as we lay. So busy was she 
with the luscious pile we had gathered 
that I had to wait for an answer. And 
then, “ Speak for yourself,” she said. 

I’m sure you look like a short-coated 
baby. He is somewhere up the river, 
too.” Munch, munch, munch ! 

“ Who is, you impertinent, greedy little 
chit?” 

“ Oh, you know ! ” she answered. “ Don’t 
you wish you had your gray plush here, 
Bab?” 

I flung a look of calm disdain at her ; 
but whether it was the berry juice which 
stained our faces that took from its effect, 


64 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


or the free mountain air which papa says 
saps the foundations of despotism, that 
made her callous, at any rate she only 
laughed scornfully and got up and went 
off down the stream with her rod, leaving 
me to finish the cloud-berries, and stare laz- 
ily up at the snow-patches on the hillside 
— which somehow put me in mind of the 
gray plush — and follow or not, as I liked. 

Clare has a wicked story of how I gave 
in to papa, and came to start without any- 
thing but those rough clothes. She says 
he said — and Jack Buchanan has told me 
that lawyers put no faith in anything that 
he says she says, or she says he says, 
which proves how much truth there is in 
this — that if Bab took none but her oldest 
clothes, and fished all day, and had no one 
to run upon her errands — he meant Jack 
and the others, I suppose — she might 
possibly grow an inch in Norway. Just 
as if I wanted to grow an inch ? An inch 
indeed ! I am five feet one and a half 
high, and papa, who puts me an inch 
shorter, is the worst measurer in the world. 
As for Miss Clare, she would give all her 
inches for my eyes. So there ! 

After Clare left it began to be dull and 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


65 


chilly. When I had pictured to myself 
how nice it would be to dress for dinner 
again, and chosen the frock I would wear 
upon the first evening, I grew tired of 
the snow-patches, and started up stream, 
stumbling and falling into holes, and 
clambering over rocks, and only careful 
to save my rod and my face. It was no 
occasion for the gray plush, but I had 
made up my mind to reach a pool which 
lay, I knew, a little above me ; having 
filched a yellow-bodied fly from Clare’s 
hat, with a view to that particular place. 

Our river did the oddest things here- 
abouts — pleased to be so young, I sup- 
pose. It was not a great churning stream 
of snow-water, foaming and milky, such as 
we had seen in some parts — streams that 
affected to be always in flood, and had 
the look of forcing the rocks asunder and 
clearing their path, even while you 
watched them with your fingers in your 
ears. Our river was none of these : still 
it was swifter than English rivers are 
wont to be, and in parts deeper, and 
transparent as glass. In one place it 
would sweep over a ledge and fall 
wreathed in spray into a spreading lake 


66 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


of black, rock-bound water. Then it 
would narrow again until, where you could 
almost jump across, it darted smooth and 
unbroken down a polished shoot with a 
swoop like a swallow’s. Out of this it 
would hurry afresh to brawl along a 
gravelly bed, skipping jauntily over first 
one and then another ridge of stones that 
had silted up weir-wise and made as if 
they would bar the channel. Under the 
lee of these there were lovely pools. 

To be able to throw into mine, I had to 
walk out along the ridge, on which the 
water was shallow, yet sufficiently deep to 
cover my boots. But I was well rewarded. 
The “ forellin ” — the Norse name for 
trout, and as pretty as their girls’ wavy 
fair hair — were rising so merrily that I 
hooked and landed one in five minutes, 
the fly falling from its mouth as it 
touched the stones. I hate taking out 
hooks. I used at one time to leave the 
fly in the fish’s mouth to be removed by 
papa at the weighing house ; until Clare 
pricked her tongue at dinner with an 
almost new, red hackle, and was so mean 
as to keep it, though I remembered then 
what I had done with it, and was certain 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 67 

it was mine — which was nothing less than 
dishonest of her. 

I had just got back to my place and 
made a fine cast, when there came — not 
the leap, and splash, and tug which an- 
nounced the half-pounder — but a deep, 
rich gurgle as the fly was gently sucked 
under, and then a quiet, growing strain 
upon the line, which began to move away 
down the pool in a way that made the 
winch spin again and filled me with mys- 
terious pleasure. I was not conscious of 
striking or of anything but that I had 
hooked a really good fish, and I clutched 
the rod with both hands and set my feet 
as tightly as I could upon the slippery 
gravel. The line moved up and down, 
and this way and that, now steadily and 
as with a purpose, and then again with an 
eccentric rush that made the top of the 
rod spring and bend so that I looked for 
it to snap each moment. My hands be- 
gan to grow numb, and the landing-net, 
hitherto an ornament, fell out of my 
waist-belt and went I knew not whither, 
I suppose I must have stepped unwit- 
tingly into deeper water, for I felt that 
my skirts were afloat, and altogether 


68 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


things were going dreadfully against me, 
when the presence of an ally close at hand 
was announced by a cheery shout from the 
far side of the river. 

“ Keep up your point ! Keep up your 
point ! ” someone cried briskly. “ That 
is better ! ” 

The unexpected sound — it was a man’s 
voice — did something to keep my heart 
up. But for answer I could only shriek, 
“ I can’t ! It will break !” watching the 
top of my rod as it jigged up and down, 
very much in the fashion of Clare per- 
forming what she calls a waltz. She 
dances as badly as a man. 

“ No, it will not,” he cried back bluntly. 
“ Keep it up, and let out a little line with 
your fingers when he pulls hardest.” 

We were forced to shout and scream. 
The wind had risen and was adding to the 
noise of the water. Soon I heard him 
wading behind me. “ Where’s your land- 
ing-net ? ” he asked, with the most pro- 
voking coolness. 

• “ Oh, in the pool ! Somewhere about. 
I am sure I don’t know,” I answered 
wildly. 

What he said to this I could not catch, 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


69 


but it sounded rude. And then he waded 
off to fetch, as I guessed, his own net. 
By the time he reached me again I was 
in a sad plight, feet like ice, and hands 
benumbed, while the wind, and rain, and 
hail, which had come down upon us with 
a sudden violence, unknown, it is to be 
hoped, anywhere else, were mottling my 
face all sorts of unbecoming colors. But 
the line was taut. And wet and cold went 
for nothing five minutes later, when the 
fish lay upon the bank, its prismatic sides 
slowly turning pale and dull, and I knelt 
over it half in pity and half in triumph, 
but wholly forgetful of the wind and rain. 

“You did that very pluckily, little 
one,” said the on-looker ; “ but I am 
afraid you will suffer for it by and by. 
You must be chilled through.” 

Quickly as I looked up at him, I only 
met a good-humored smile. He did not 
mean to be rude. And after all, when I 
was in such a mess, it was not possible that 
he could see what I was like. He was 
wet enough himself. The rain was 
streaming from the brim of the soft hat 
which he had turned down to shelter his 
face, and trickling from his chin, and turn- 


70 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


ing his shabby Norfolk jacket a darker 
shade. As for his hands, they looked red 
and knuckly enough, and he had been 
wading almost to his waist. But he 
looked, I don’t know why, all the stronger 
and manlier and nicer for these things, be- 
cause, perhaps, he cared for them not one 
whit. What I looked like myself I dared 
not think. My skirts were as short as 
short could be, and they were soaked ; 
most of my hair was unplaited, my gloves 
were split, and my sodden boots were out 
of shape. I was forced, too, to shiver 
and shake from cold, which was pro- 
voking, for I knew it made me seem half 
as small again. 

“ Thank you, I am a little cold, Mr. 

Mr. ” I said gravely, only my 

teeth would chatter so that he laughed 
outright as he took me up with 

“ Herapath. And to whom have I the 
honor of speaking ? ” 

“ I am Miss Guest,” I said miserably. 
It was too cold to be frigid to advantage. 

“ Commonly called Bab, I think,” the 
wretch answered. “ The walls of our hut 
are not sound-proof, you see. But come, 
the sooner you get back to dry clothes 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 71 

and the stove, the better, Bab. You can 
cross the river just below, and cut off 
half a mile that way.” 

“ I can’t,” I said obstinately. Bab, in- 
deed ! How dared he ? 

“ Oh yes, you can,” with intolerable 
good temper. “You shall take your rod 
and I the prey. You cannot be wetter 
than you are now.” 

He had his way, of course, since I did 
not foresee that at the ford he would lift 
me up bodily and carry me over the 
deeper part without a pretense of asking 
leave, or a word of apology. It was done 
so quickly that I had no time to remon- 
strate. Still I was not going to let it pass, 
and when I had shaken myself straight 
again, I said, with all the haughtiness I 
could assume, “ Don’t you think, Mr. 
Herapath that it would have been more — 
more ” 

“ Polite to offer to carry you over, 
child? No, not at all. It will be wiser 
and warmer for you to run down the hill. 
Come along ! ” 

And without more ado, while I was still 
choking with rage, he seized my hands 
and set off at a trot, lugging me through 


72 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


the sloppy places much as I have seen a 
nurse drag a fractious child down Consti- 
tution Hill. It was not wonderful that I 
soon lost the little breath his speech had 
left me, and was powerless to complain 
when we reached the bridge. I could 
only thank Heaven that there was no sign 
of Clare. I think I should have died of 
mortification if she had seen us come 
down the hill hand-in-hand in that ridic- 
ulous fashion. But she had gone home, 
and at any rate I escaped that degradation. 

A wet stool-car and wetter pony were 
dimly visible on the bridge ; to which, as 
we came up, a damp urchin creeping from 
some crevice added himself. I was pushed 
in as if I had no will of my own, the 
gentleman sprang up beside me, the boy 
tucked himself away somewhere behind, 
and the little “ teste ” set off at a canter, 
so deceived by the driver’s excellent imi- 
tation of “ Pss,” the Norse for “ Tchk,” 
that in ten minutes we were at home. 

“ Well, I never ! ” Clare said, surveying 
me from a respectful distance, when at 
last I was safe in our room. “ I would not 
be seen in such a state by a man for all 
the fish in the sea ! ” 


• 





IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


73 


And she looked so tall, and trim, and 
neat, that it was the more provoking. At 
the moment I was too miserable to an- 
swer her, and had to find -comfort in 
promising myself that when we were back 
in Bolton Gardens I would see that Frau- 
lein kept Miss Clare’s pretty nose to the 
grindstone though it were ever so much 
her last term, or Jack were ever so fond 
of her. Papa was in the plot against me, 
too. What right had he to thank Mr. 
Herapath for bringing “ his little girl ” 
home safe ? He can be pompous enough 
at times. I never knew a stout Queen’s 
Counsel — and papa is stout — who was not, 
any more than a thin one who did not 
contradict. It is in their patents, I think. 

Mr. Herapath dined with us that even- 
ing — if fish and potatoes and boiled eggs, 
and sour bread and pancakes, and claret 
and coffee can be called a dinner — but 
nothing I could do, though I made the 
best of my wretched frock and was as stiff 
as Clare herself, could alter his first im- 
pression. It was too bad ; he had no 
eyes ! He either could not or would not 
see anyone but the draggled Bab — 
fifteen at most and a very tom-boy — 


74 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


whom he had carried across the river. He 
styled Clare, who talked Baedeker to him 
in her primmest and most precocious 
way, Miss Guest, and once at least during 
the evening dubbed me plain Bab. I 
tried to freeze him with a look then, and 
papa gave him a taste of the pompous 
manner, saying coldly that I was older 
than I seemed. But it was not a bit of 
use ; I could see that he set it all down 
to the grand airs of a spoiled child. If I 
had put my hair up, it might have opened 
his eyes, but Clare teased me about it and 
I was too proud for that. 

When I asked him if he was fond of 
dancing, he said good-naturedly, “ I don’t 
visit very much, Miss Bab. I am gener- 
ally engaged in the evening.” 

Here was a chance. I was going to 
say that that, no doubt, was the reason 
why I had never met him, when papa 
ruthlessly cut me short by asking, “ You 
are not in the law ? ” 

“ No,” he replied, “ I am in the London 
Fire Brigade.” 

I think that we all upon the instant 
saw him in a helmet, sitting at the door 
of the fire station by St. Martin’s Church. 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


75 


Clare turned crimson, and papa seemed 
on a sudden to call his patent to mind. 
The moment before I had been as angry 
as angry could be with our guest, but I was 
not going to look on and see him snubbed 
when he was dining with us and all. So 
I rushed into the gap as quickly as sur- 
prise would let me with, “ Good gracious, 
how nice ! Do tell me all about a fire ! ” 

It made matters — my matters — worse, 
for I could have cried with vexation when 
I read in his face next moment that he 
had looked for their astonishment ; while 
the ungrateful fellow set down my eager 
remark to mere childish ignorance. 

“ Some time I will,” he said, with a 
quiet smile de hant en bas ; “ but I do 
not often attend one in person. I am 

Captain ’s private secretary, aid-de- 

camp, and general factotum.” 

And it turned out that he was the son 
of a certain Canon Herapath, so that 
papa lost sight of his patent box alto- 
gether, and they set to discussing Mr. 
Gladstone, while I slipped off to bed, 
feeling as small as I ever did in my life 
and out of temper with everybody. It 
was a long time since I had been used to 


76 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


young men talking politics to papa when 
they could talk — politics — to me. 

Possibly I deserved the week of vexa- 
tion which followed ; but it was almost 
more than I could bear. He — Mr. Hera- 
path, of course — was always about fishing 
or lounging outside the little white post- 
ing-house, taking walks and meals with 
us, and seeming heartily to enjoy papa’s 
society. He came with us when we drove 
to the top of the pass to get a glimpse of 
the Sulethid peak ; and it looked so 
brilliantly clear and softly beautiful as it 
seemed to float, just tinged with color, in 
a far-off atmosphere of its own beyond the 
dark ranges of nearer hills, that I began 
to think at once of the drawing room in 
Bolton Gardens, with a cozy fire burning 
and afternoon tea coming up. The tears 
came into my eyes, and he saw them 
before I could turn away from the view ; 
and said to papa that he feared his little 
girl was tired as well as cold, and so 
spoiled all my pleasure. I looked back 
afterward as papa and I drove down. 
He was walking by Clare’s carcole, and 
they were laughing heartily. 

And that was the way always. He was 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


77 


such an elder brother to me — a thing I 
never had and do not want — that a dozen 
times a day I set my teeth viciously to- 
gether and said to myself that if ever we 
met in London — but what nonsense that 
was, because, of course, it mattered noth- 
ing to me what he was thinking, only he 
had no right to be so rudely familiar. 
That was all ; but it was quite enough to 
make me dislike him. 

However, a sunny morning in the holi- 
days is a cheerful thing, and when I 
strolled down stream with my rod on the 
day after our expedition, I felt I could 
enjoy myself very nearly as much as I 
had before his coming spoiled our party. 
I dawdled along, now trying a pool, now 
clambering up the hill-sides to pick rasp- 
berries, and now counting the magpies 
that flew across, feeling altogether very 
placid and good and contented. I had 
chosen the lower river because Mr. 
Herapath usually fished the upper part, 
and I would not be ruffled this nice day. 
So I was the more vexed to come sud- 
denly upon him fishing ; and fishing 
where he had no right to be. Papa had 
spoken to him about the danger of it, and 


78 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


he had as good as said he would not do it 
again. Yet there he was, thinking, I dare 
say, that we should not know. It was a 
spot where one bank rose into quite a 
cliff, frowning over a deep pool at the 
foot of some falls. Close to the cliff the 
water still ran with the speed of a mill- 
race, so fast as to endanger a good 
swimmer. But on the far side of this 
current there was a bit of slack water, 
which was tempting enough to have set 
someone’s wits to work to devise means 
to fish it, which from the top of the cliff 
was impossible. Just above the water 
was a ledge, a foot wide, perhaps, which 
might have done, only it did not reach to 
this end of the cliff. However, that fool- 
hardy person had espied this, and got 
over the gap by bridging the latter with 
a bit of plank, and then had drowned 
himself or gone away, in either case leav- 
ing his board to tempt others to do like- 
wise. 

And there was Mr. Herapath fishing 
from the ledge. It made me giddy to 
look at him. The rock overhung the 
water so much that he could not stand 
upright; the first person who got there 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


79 


must surely have learned to curl himself 
up from much sleeping in Norwegian 
beds, which were short forme. I thought 
of this oddly enough as I watched him, 
and laughed, and was for going on. But 
when I had walked a few yards, meaning 
to pass round the rear of the cliff, I be- 
gan to fancy all sorts of foolish things 
would happen. I felt sure that I should 
have no more peace or pleasure if I left 
him there. I hesitated. Yes, I would. 
I would go down, and ask him to leave 
the place ; and, of course, he would do it. 

I lost no time, but ran down the slope 
smartly and carelessly. My way lay over 
loose shale mingled with large stones, and 
it was steep. It was wonderful how 
quickly an accident happens ; how swiftly 
a thing that cannot be undone is done, 
and we are left wishing — oh, so vainly — 
that we could put the world, and all 
things in it, back by a few seconds. I was 
checking myself near the bottom, when a 
big stone on which I stepped moved 
under me. The shale began to slip in a 
mass, and the stone to roll. It was all 
done in a moment. I stayed myself, that 
was easy enough, but the stone took two 


8o 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


bounds, jumped sideways, struck the 
piece of board, which was only resting 
lightly at either end, and before I could 
take it all in the little bridge plunged end 
first into the current, which swept it out 
of sight in an instant. 

He threw up his hands in affright, for 
he had turned, and we both saw it hap- 
pen. He made indeed as if he would try 
to save it, but that was impossible ; and 
then, while I cowered in dismay, he waved 
his arm to me in the direction of home — 
again and again. The roar of the falls 
drowned what he said, but I guessed his 
meaning. I could not help him myself, 
but I could fetch help. It was three miles 
to Breistolen, — rough, rocky ones, — and 
I doubted whether he could keep his 
cramped position with that noise deafen- 
ing him, and the endless whirling stream 
before his eyes, while I was going and 
coming. But there was no better way I 
could think of ; and even as I wavered, 
he signaled to me again imperatively. 
For an instant everything seemed to go 
round with me, but it was not the time 
'for that yet, and I tried to collect myself 
and harden my heart. Up the bank I 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


81 


went steadily, and once at the top set off 
at a run homeward. 

I cannot tell at all how I did it ; how 
I passed over the uneven ground, or 
whether I went quickly or slowly save by 
the reckoning papa made afterward. I 
can only remember one long hurrying 
scramble ; now I panted uphill, now I ran 
down, now I was on my face in a hole, 
breathless and half-stunned, and now I 
was up to my knees in water. I slipped 
and dropped down places I should at 
other times have shrunk from, and hurt 
myself so that I bore the marks for 
months. But I thought nothing of these 
things : all my being was spent in hurry- 
ing on for his life, the clamor of every 
cataract I passed seeming to stop my 
heart’s beating with very fear. So I 
reached Breistolen and panted over the 
bridge and up to the little white house 
lying so quiet in the afternoon sunshine, 
papa’s stool-car even then at the door 
ready to take him to some favorite pool. 
Somehow I made him understand in 
broken words that Herapath was in danger, 
drowning already, for all I knew, and then 
I seized a great pole which was leaning 


82 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


against the porch, and climbed into the 
car. Papa was not slow, either ; he 
snatched a coil of rope from the luggage, 
and away we went, a man and boy whom 
he had hastily called running behind us. 
We had lost very little time, but so much 
may happen in so little time. 

We were forced to leave the car a 
quarter of a mile from that part of the 
river, and walk or run the rest of the 

way. We all ran, even papa, as I had 

never known him run before. My heart 
sank at the groan he let escape him 
when I pointed out the spot. We 
came to it one by one. The ledge was 
empty. Jem Herapath was gone. I 
suppose it startled me. At any rate I 

could only look at the water in a dazed 

way and cry quietly, without much feel- 
ing that it was my doing ; while the men, 
shouting to one another in strange, 
hushed voices, searched about for any 
sign of his fate. “ Jem ! Jem Herapath ! ” 
So he had written his name only yester- 
day in the travelers’ book at the posting- 
house, and I had sullenly watched him 
from the window, and then had sneaked 
to the book and read it. That was yester- 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 83 

day, and now! Oh, Jem, to hear you 
say “ Bab ” once more ! 

“ Bab ! Why, Miss Bab, what is the 
matter ? ” 

Safe and sound ! Yes, there he was 
when I turned, safe and strong and cool, 
rod in hand and a quiet smile in his eyes. 
Just as I had seen him yesterday, and 
thought never to see him again ; and say- 
ing “ Bab,” exactly as of old, so that 
something in my throat — it may have 
been anger at his rudeness, but I do not 
think it was— prevented me saying a 
word until all the others came around 
us, and a babel of Norse and English, 
and something that was neither, yet both, 
set in. 

“ But how is this ? ” objected my father, 
when he could be heard, “you are quite 
dry, my boy ?” 

“ Dry ! Why not, sir? For goodness’ 
sake, what is the matter?” 

“The matter? Didn’t you fall in, or 
something of the kind?” papa asked, be- 
wildered by this new aspect of the case. 

“ It does not look like it, does it ? 
Your daughter gave me a very uncom- 
fortable start by nearly doing so.” 


8 4 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


Everyone looked at him for an explana- 
tion. “ How did you manage to get from 
the ledge?” I said feebly. Where was 
the mistake ? I had not dreamed it. 

“From the ledge? Why, by the other 
end, to be sure, so that I had to walk 
back round the hill. Still, I did not 
mind, for I was thankful that it was the 
plank and not you that fell in.” 

“ I — I thought — you could not get from 
the ledge,” I muttered. The possibility 
of getting off at the other end had never 
occurred to me, and so I had made such 
a simpleton of myself. It was too absurd, 
too ridiculous ! It was no wonder that 
they all screamed with laughter at the 
fool’s errand they had come upon, and 
stamped about and clung to one another. 
But when he laughed too, — and he did 
until the tears came into his eyes, — there 
was not an ache or pain in my body — and 
I had cut my wrist to the bone against a 
splinter of rock — that hurt me one-half as 
much. Surely he might have seen an- 
other side to it. But he did not ; and so 
I managed to hide my bandaged wrist 
from him, and papa drove me home. 
There I broke down entirely, and Clare 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


35 


put me to bed and petted me, and was 
very good to me. And when I came 
down next day, with an ache in every 
part of me, he was gone. 

“ He asked me to tell you,” said Clare, 
not looking up from the fly she was tying 
at the window, “ that he thought you 
were the bravest girl he had ever met.” 

So he understood now, when others had 
explained it to him. “ No, Clare,” I said 
coldly ; “ he did not say that exactly. 
He said, ‘ the bravest little girl.’ ” For, 
indeed, lying upstairs with the window 
open, I had heard him set off on his long 
drive to Laerdalsoren. As for papa, he 
was half-proud and half-ashamed of my 
foolishness, and wholly at a loss to think 
how I could have made the mistake. 

“ You’ve generally some common 
sense, my dear,” he said that day at din- 
ner, “ and how in the world you could 
have been so ready to fancy the man in 
danger, I — can — not — imagine ! ” 

“ Papa,” put in Clare suddenly, “ your 
elbow is upsetting the salt.” 

And as I had to move my seat just then 
to avoid the glare of the stove, which was 
falling on my face, we never thought it out. 


86 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


II. 

HIS STORY. 

I WAS not dining out much at that time, 
partly because my acquaintance in town 
was limited, and somewhat too because I 
cared little for it. But these were pleas- 
ant people, the old gentleman witty and 
amusing, the children, lively girls, nice to 
look at and good to talk with. The party 
had too a holiday flavor about them 
wholesome to recall in Scotland Yard : 
and as I had thought, playtime over, I 
should see no more of them, I was pro- 
portionately pleased to find that Mr. 
Guest had not forgotten me, and pleased 
also — shrewdly expecting that we might 
kill our fish over again — to regard his 
invitation to dinner at a quarter to eight 
as a royal command. 

But if I took it so, I was sadly wanting 
in the regal courtesy to match. What 
with one delay owing to work that would 
admit of none, and another caused by a 
cabman strange to the ways of town, it 
was twenty-five minutes after the hour 
named when I reached Bolton Gardens, 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


87 


A stately man, so like the Queen’s Counsel 
that it was plain upon whom the latter 
modeled himself, ushered me straight 
into the dining room, where Guest greeted 
me very kindly, and met my excuses by 
apologies on his part — for preferring, I 
suppose, the comfort of eleven people to 
mine. Then he took me down the table, 
and said,“ My daughter,” and Miss Guest 
shook hands with me and pointed to the 
chair at her left. I had still, as I unfolded 
my napkin, to say “ Clear, if you please,” 
and then I was free to turn and apologize 
to her ; being a little shy, and, as I have 
said, a somewhat infrequent diner out. 

I think that I never saw so remarkable 
a likeness — to her younger sister — in my 
life. She might have been little Bab her- 
self, but for her dress and some striking 
differences. Miss Guest could not be 
more than eighteen, in form almost as 
fairy-like as the little one, with the same 
child-like, innocent look on her face. She 
had the big gray eyes, too, that were so 
charming in Bab ; but in her they were 
more soft and tender and thoughtful, and 
a thousand times more charming. Her 
hair too was brown and wavy : only, 


88 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


instead of hanging loose or in a pig-tail, 
anywhere and anyhow, in a fashion I well 
remembered, it was coiled in a coronal on 
the shapely little head, that was so Greek, 
and in its gracious, stately, old-fashioned 
pose, so unlike Bab’s. Her dress, of some 
creamy, gauzy stuff, revealed the prettiest 
white throat in the world, and arms decked 
in pearls, and, so far, no more recalled my 
little fishing-mate than the sedate self- 
possession and assured dignity of this girl, 
as she talked to her other neighbor, sug- 
gested Bab making pancakes and chatter- 
ing with the landlady’s children in her 
strangely and wonderfully acquired Norse. 
It was not Bab in fact : and yet it almost 
might have been : an etherealized, queenly, 
womanly Bab — who presently turned to 
me : 

“ Have you quite settled down after 
your holiday ? ” she asked, staying the 
apologies I was for pouring into her ear. 

“ I had until this evening, but the sight 
of your father is like a breath of fiord air. 
I hope your sisters are well.” 

“ My sisters ? ” she murmured wonder- 
ingly, her fork halfway to her pretty 
mouth and her attitude one of questioning. 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


89 


“Yes,” I said, rather puzzled. “You 
know they were with your father when I 
had the good fortune to meet him. Miss 
Clare and Bab.” 

“ Eh ? ” dropping her fork on the plate 
with a great clatter. 

“ Yes, Miss Guest ; Miss Clare and Miss 
Bab.” 

I really began to feel uncomfortable. 
Her color rose, and she looked me in the 
face in a half-proud, half-fearful way as if 
she resented the inquiry. It was a relief 
to me, when, with some show of confusion, 
she at length stammered, “ Oh, yes, I beg 
your pardon, of course they were! How 
very foolish of me ! They are quite well, 
thank you,” and so was silent again. But 
I understand now. Mr. Guest had omitted 
to mention my name, and she had taken 
me for someone else of whose holiday she 
knew. I gathered from the aspect of the 
table and the room that the Guests saw a 
good deal of company, and it was a very 
natural mistake, though by the grave look 
she bent upon her plate it was clear that 
the young hostess was taking herself to 
task for it : not without, if I might judge 
from the lurking smile at the corners of 


9 ° 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


her mouth, a humorous sense of the slip, 
and perhaps of the difference between 
myself and the gentleman whose part I 
had been unwittingly supporting. Mean- 
while I had a chance of looking at her 
unchecked ; and thought of Dresden china, 
she was so frail and pretty. 

“You were nearly drowned, or some- 
thing of the kind, were you not ? ” she 
asked, after an interval during which we 
had both talked to others. 

“ Well, not precisely. Your sister 
fancied I was in danger, and behaved in 
the pluckiest manner — so bravely that I 
can almost feel sorry that the danger was 
not there to dignify her heroism.” 

“ That was like her,” she answered, in a 
tone just a little scornful. “You must 
have thought her a terrible tomboy.” 

While she was speaking there came one 
of those terrible lulls in the talk, and 
Mr. Guest, overhearing, cried : “ Who is 
that you are abusing, my dear? Let us 
all share in the sport. If it’s Clare, I 
think I can name one who is a far worse 
hoyden upon occasion.” 

“ It is no one of whom you have ever 
heard, papa,” she answered archly. “ It 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 91 

is a person in whom Mr. — Mr. Hera- 
path ” — I had murmured my name as she 
stumbled — “ and I are interested. Now, 
tell me, did you not think so ? ” she mur- 
mured graciously, leaning the slightest 
bit toward me, and opening her eyes as 
she looked into mine in a way that to a 
man who had spent th*e day in a dusty 
room in Great Scotland Yard was suffi- 
ciently intoxicating. 

“ No,” I said, lowering my voice in imi- 
tation of hers. “ No, Miss Guest, I did 
not think so at all. I thought your sister 
a brave little thing — rather careless, as 
children are apt to be, but likely to grow 
into a charming girl.” 

I wondered, marking how she bit her 
lip and refrained from assent, whether, 
impossible as it must seem to anyone 
looking in her face, there might not be 
something of the shrew about my beauti- 
ful neighbor. Her tone, when she spoke 
of her sister, seemed to import no great 
good will. 

“ So that is your opinion ? ” she said, 
after a pause. “ Do you know,” with a 
laughing glance, “ that some people think 
I am like her? ” 


92 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


“Yes?” I answered gravely. “Well, 
I should be able to judge, who have seen 
you both and yet am not an old friend. 
And I think you are both like and un- 
like. Your sister has very beautiful eyes ” 
— she lowered hers swiftly — “and hair 
like yours, but her manner and style were 
very different. I can no more fancy Bab 
in your place than I can picture you, Miss 
Guest, as I saw her for the first time — 
and on many after occasions,” I added, 
laughing as much to cover my own hardi- 
hood as at the queer little figure I had 
conjured up. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Herapath,” she re- 
plied with coldness, though she had 
blushed darkly to her ears. “ That, I 
think, must be enough of compliments 
for to-night — as you are not an old 
friend.” And she turned away, leaving 
me to curse my folly in saying so much, 
when our acquaintance was as yet in the 
bud, and as susceptible to overwarmth as 
to a temperature below zero. 

A moment later the ladies left us. 
The flush I had brought to her cheek 
still lingered there, as she swept past me 
with a wondrous show of dignity in one 


IN CUPID’S TOILS . 


93 


so young. Mr. Guest came down and 
took her place, and we talked of the 
“ land of berries,” and our adventures 
there, while the rest — older friends — 
listened indulgently or struck in from 
time to time with their own biggest fish 
and deadliest flies. 

I used to wonder why women like to 
visit dusty chambers ; why they get 
more joy — I am fain to think they do — 
out of a scrambling tea up three pairs of 
stairs in Pump Court, than from the very 
same materials — and comfort withal — in 
their own house. I imagine it is for the 
same reason that the bachelor finds a 
singular charm in a lady’s drawing room, 
and there, if anywhere, sees her with 
a reverent mind — a charm and a subser- 
vience which I felt to the full in the 
Guests’ drawing room — a room rich in 
subdued colors and a cunning blending 
of luxury and comfort. Yet it depressed 
me. I felt alone. Mr. Guest had passed 
on to others and I stood aside, the sense 
that I was not of these people troubling 
me in a manner as new as it was absurd : 
for I had been in the habit of rather 
despising “ society.” Miss Guest was at 


94 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


the piano, the center of a circle of soft 
light, which showed up also a keen-faced, 
dark-whiskered man leaning over her 
with the air of one used to the position. 
Everyone else was so fully engaged that 
I may have looked, as well as felt, for- 
lorn, and meeting her eyes could have 
fancied she was regarding me with amuse- 
ment — almost triumph. It must have 
been mere fancy, bred of self-conscious- 
ness, for the next moment she beckoned 
me to her, and said to her cavalier: 

“There, Jack; Mr. Herapath is going 
to talk to me about Norway now, so that 
I don’t want you any longer. Perhaps 
you won’t mind stepping up to the 
schoolroom — Fraulein and Clare are 
there — and telling Clare, that — that — oh, 
anything ! ” 

There is no piece of ill-breeding so bad 
to my mind as for a man who is at home 
in a house to flaunt his favor in the face 
of other guests. That young lawyer’s 
manner as he left her, and the smile of 
perfect intelligence which passed be- 
tween them were such a breach of good 
manners as would have ruffled anyone. 
They ruffled me — yes, me, although it 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


95 


was no concern of mine what she called 
him, or how he conducted himself — so 
that I could do nothing but stand by the 
piano and sulk. One bear makes another, 
you know. 

She did not speak, and I, content to 
watch the slender hands stealing over the 
keys, would not, until my eyes fell upon 
her right wrist. She had put off her 
bracelets and so disclosed a scar upon it, 
something about which — not its newness 
— so startled me that I said abruptly, 
“ That is very strange ! Pray tell me how 
you did it ! ” 

She looked up, saw what I meant, and, 
stopping hastily, put on her bracelets ; to 
all appearance so vexed by my thought- 
less question, and anxious to hide the 
mark, that I was quick to add humbly, 
“ I asked because your sister hurt her 
wrist in nearly the same place on the day 
when she thought I was in trouble, and 
the coincidence struck me.” 

“ Yes, I remember,” looking at me I 
thought with a certain suspicion, as 
though she were not sure that I was 
giving the right motive. “ I did this 
much in the same way. By falling, I 


9 6 


m CUPID'S TOILS. 


mean. Isn’t it a hateful , disfigure- 
ment ? ” 

No, it was no disfigurement. Even to 
her, with a woman’s love of conquest, it 
must have seemed anything but a dis- 
figurement had she known what the quiet, 
awkward man at her side was thinking, 
who stood looking shyly at it and found 
no words to contradict her, though she 
asked him twice, and thought him stupid 
enough. A great longing to kiss that 
soft, scarred wrist was on me — and Miss 
Guest had added another to the number 
of her slaves. I don’t know now why 
that little scar should have so touched 
me any more than I then could guess 
why, being a commonplace person, I 
should fall in love at first sight, and feel 
no surprise at my condition, only a half 
consciousness (seeming fully to justify it) 
that in some former state of being I had 
met my love, and read her thoughts, and 
learned her moods, and come to know 
the bright womanly spirit that looked 
from her frank eyes as well as if she were 
an old, old friend. And so vivid was this 
sensation, that once or twice, then and 
afterward, when I would meet her glance, 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


97 


another name than hers trembled on my 
tongue and passed away before I could 
shape it into sound. 

After an interval, “Are you going to 
the Goldmaces’ dance?” 

“No,” I answered her humbly. “I 
go out so little.” 

“ Indeed,” with an odd smile not too 
kindly ; “ I wish — no, I don’t — that we 
could say the same. We are engaged, 
I think ” — she paused, her attention 
divided between myself and Boccherini’s 
minuet, the low strains of which she was 
sending through the room — “ for every 
afternoon — this week — except Saturday. 
By the way, Mr. Herapath — do you re- 
member what was the name — Bab told 
me you teased her with ? ” 

“ Wee bonnie Bab,” I answered ab- 
sently. My thoughts had gone forward 
to Saturday. We are always dropping 
to-day’s substance for the shadow of to- 
morrow; like the dog — a dog was it not ? 
— in the fable. 

“ Oh, yes, wee bonnie Bab,” she mur- 
mured softly. “ Poor Bab ! ” and suddenly 
cut short Boccherini’s music and our chat 
by striking a terrific discord and laugh- 


9 8 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


ing merrily at my start of discomfiture. 
Everyone took it as a signal to leave. 
They all seemed to be going to meet her 
again next day, or the day after that ; 
they engaged her for dances, and made 
up a party for the law courts, and tossed 
to and fro a score of laughing catch- 
words, that were beyond my comprehen- 
sion. They all did this, except myself. 

And yet I went away with something 
before me — that call upon Saturday after- 
noon. Quite unreasonably I fancied I 
should see her alone. And so when the 
day came and I stood outside the open- 
ing door of the drawing room, and heard 
voices and laughter within, I was hurt 
and aggrieved beyond measure. There 
was quite a party, and a merry one, as- 
sembled, who were playing at some game 
as it seemed to me, for I caught sight of 
Clare whipping off an impromptu band- 
age from her eyes, and striving by her 
stiffest air to give the lie to a pair of 
flushed cheeks. The black-whiskered man 
was there, and two men of his kind, and a 
German governess, and a very old lady in 
a wheel-chair, who was called “ grand- 
mamma,” and Miss Guest herself looking, 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


99 


in the prettiest dress of silvery plush, to 
the full as bright and fair and graceful as 
I had been picturing her each hour since 
we parted. 

She dropped me a stately courtesy. 

“ Will you play the part of Miss Carolina 
Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs, Mr. Hera- 
path, while I act honest Burchell, and 
say * Fudge ! ’ or will you burn nuts and 
play games with neighbor Flamborough ? 
You will join us, won’t you? Clare does 
not so misbehave every day, only it is 
such a wet afternoon and so cold and 
wretched, and we did not think there 
would be any more callers — and tea will 
be up in five minutes.” 

She did not think there would be any 
more callers! Something in her smile 
belied the words and taught me that she 
had thought — she had known — that there ' 
would be one more caller — one who would 
burn nuts and play games with her, though 
Rome itself were afire, and Tooley Street 
and the Mile End Road to boot. 

It was a simple game enough, and not 
likely, one would say, to afford much 
risk of that burning the fingers which 
gave a zest to the Vicar of Wakefield’s 


IOO 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


nuts. One sat in the middle blind-folded, 
while the rest disguised their own or 
assumed each other’s voices, and spoke 
one by one some gibe or quip at his ex- 
pense. When he succeeded in naming 
the speaker, the detected satirist put on 
the poke, and in his turn heard things 
good — if he had a conceit of himself — for 
his soul’s health. Now this role un- 
happily soon fell to me, and proved a 
heavy one, because I was not so familiar 
with the other’s voices as were the rest ; 
and Miss Guest — whose faintest tones I 
thought to have known — had a wondrous 
knack of cheating me, now taking off 
Clare’s voice, and now — after the door 
had been opened to admit the tea — her 
father’s. So I failed again and again to 
earn my release. But when a voice be- 
hind me cried with well-feigned eager- 
ness : 

“ How nice ! Do tell me all about a 
fire ! ” 

Though no fresh creaking of the door 
had reached me, nor warning been given 
of an addition to the players, I had not 
the smallest doubt who was the speaker ; 
but exclaimed at once, “ That is Bab ! 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


IOI 


Now I cry you mercy. I am right this 
time. That was Bab ! ” 

I looked for a burst of applause and 
laughter, such as had before attended a 
good thrust home, but none came. On 
the contrary, with my words so odd a 
silence fell upon the room that it was 
clear that something was wrong, and I 
pulled off my handkerchief in haste, re- 
peating, “ That was Bab, I am sure.” 

But if it was, I could not see her. 
What had come over them all? Jack’s 
face wore a provoking smile, and his 
friends were clearly bent upon snigger- 
ing. Clare looked horrified, and grand- 
mamma gently titillated, while Miss 
Guest, who had risen and half turned 
away toward the windows, seemed to be 
in a state of proud confusion. What was 
the matter ? 

“ I beg everyone’s pardon by anticipa- 
tion,” I said, looking round in a bewildered 
way, “ but have I said anything wrong ? ” 

“ Oh, dear no! ’’cried the fellow they 
called Jack, with a familiarity that was 
in the worst taste — as if I had meant to 
apologize to him ! “ Most natural thing 

jn the world ! ” 


102 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


“ Jack, how dare you ! ” exclaimed Miss 
Guest, stamping her foot. 

“ Well, it seemed all right. It sounded 
very natural, I am sure.” 

“ Oh, you are unbearable ! Why don’t 
you say something, Clare ? ” 

“ Mr. Herapath, I am sure that you did 
not know that my name was Barbara.” 

“ Certainly not,” I cried. “ What a 
strange thing ! ” 

“ But it is, and that is why grandmamma 
is looking so shocked, and Mr. Buchanan 
is wearing threadbare an old friend’s privi- 
lege of being rude. I freely forgive you 
if you will make allowance for him. And 
you shall come off the stool of repentance 
and have your tea first, since you are the 
greatest stranger. It is a stupid game, 
after all ! ” 

She would hear no apologies from me. 
And when I would have asked why her 
sister bore the same name, and thus ex- 
cused myself, she was intent upon tea- 
making, and the few moments I could 
with decency add to my call gave me 
scant opportunity. I blush to think how 
I eked them out, by what subservience to 
Clare, by what a slavish anxiety to help 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 1 03 

even Jack to muffins — each piece I hoped 
might choke him. How slow I was to 
find hat and gloves, calling to mind with 
terrible vividness, as I turned my back 
upon the circle, that again and again in 
my experience an acquaintance begun by 
a dinner had ended with the consequent 
call. And so I should have gone — it 
might have been so here — but that the 
door-handle was stiff, and Miss Guest 
came to my aid as I fumbled with it. 
“ We are always at home on Saturdays, if 
you like to call, Mr. Herapath,” she mur- 
mured carelessly, not lifting her eyes — 
and I found myself in the street. 

So carelessly she said it that, with a 
sudden change of feeling, I vowed I would 
not call. Why should I ? Why should 
I worry myself with the sight of those 
other fellows parading their favor ? With 
the babble of that society chit-chat, which 
I had so often scorned, and— and still 
scorned, and had no part or concern in. 
They were not people to suit me or do 
me good. I would not go, I said, and re- 
peated it firmly on Monday and Tuesday; 
on Wednesday only so far modified it 
that I thought at some distant time to 


io4 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


leave a card — to avoid discourtesy; on 
Friday preferred an earlier date as wiser 
and more polite, and on Saturday walked 
shame-faced down the street, and knocked 
and rang and went upstairs — to taste a 
pleasant misery. Yes, and on the next 
Saturday too, and the next, and the next ; 
and that one on which we all went to the 
theater, and that other one on which Mr. 
Guest kept me to dinner. Aye, and on 
other days that were not Saturdays, 
among which two stand high out of the 
waters of forgetfulness — high days, in- 
deed — days like twin pillars of Hercules, 
through which I thought to reach, as did 
the seamen of old, I knew not what 
treasures of unknown lands stretching 
away under the setting sun. First that 
one 4 on which I found Barbara Guest 
alone and blurted out that I had the 
audacity to wish to make her my wife ; 
and then heard, before I had well — or 
badly — told my tale, the wheels of grand- 
mamma’s chair outside. 

“ Hush ! ” the girl said, her face turned 
from me. “ Hush, Mr. Herapath! You 
don’t know me, indeed. You have seen 
so little of me. Please say nothing more 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


io 5 

about it. You are completely under a 
delusion.” 

“ It is no delusion that I love you, Bar- 
bara ! ” I cried. 

“ It is ! it is ! ” she repeated, freeing her 
hand. “ There, if you will not take an 
answer — come — come at three to-morrow. 
But mind, I promise you nothing — I 
promise nothing,” she added feverishly, 
and fled from the room, leaving me to 
talk to grandmamma as best, and escape 
as quickly as, I might. 

I longed for a great fire that evening, 
and, failing one, tired myself by tramping 
unknown streets of the East End, striving 
to teach myself that any trouble to-mor- 
row might bring was but a shadow, a 
sentiment, a thing not to be mentioned 
in the same breath with the want and toil 
of which I caught glimpses up each street 
and lane that opened to right and left. 
In the main, of course, I failed ; but the 
effort did me good, sending me home 
tired out, to sleep as soundly as if I were 
going to be hanged next day, and not — 
which is a very different thing — to be put 
upon my trial. 

“ I will tell Miss Guest you are here, 


io6 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


sir,” the man said. I looked at all the 
little things in the room which I had 
come to know well — her work basket, the 
music upon the piano, the table easel, her 
photograph, and wondered if I were to 
see them no more, or if they were to be- 
come a part of my everyday life. Then I 
heard her come in, and turned quickly, 
feeling that I should learn my fate from 
her greeting. 

“ Bab ! ” The word was wrung from 
me perforce. And then we stood and 
looked at one another, she with a strange 
pride and defiance in her eyes, though 
her cheek was dark with blushes, and I 
with wonder and perplexity in mine. 
Wonder and perplexity that quickly grew 
into a conviction, a certainty that the girl 
standing before me in the short-skirted 
brown dress with tangled hair and loose 
neck-ribbon was the Bab I had known in 
Norway; and yet that the eyes — I could 
not mistake them now, no matter what 
unaccustomed look they might wear — 
were Barbara Guest’s ! 

“ Miss Guest — Barbara,” I stammered, 
grappling with the truth, “ why have you 
played this trick upon me ? ” 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


107 

“ It is Miss Guest and Barbara now,” 
she cried, with a mocking courtesy. “ Do 
you remember, Mr. Herapath, when it 
was Bab? When you treated me as a 
kind of toy and a plaything, with which 
you might be as intimate as you liked ; 
and hurt my feelings — yes, it is weak to 
confess it, I know — day by day and hour 
by hour?” 

“ But, surely, that is forgiven now? ” I 
said, dazed by an attack so sudden and so 
bitter. “ It is atonement enough that I 
am at your feet now, Barbara ! ” 

“You are not,” she retorted hotly. 
“ Don’t say you have offered love to me, 
who am the same with the child you 
teased at Breistolen. You have fallen in 
love with my fine clothes and my pearls 
and my maid’s work, not with me! You 
have fancied the girl you saw other men 
make much of. But you have not loved 
the woman who might have prized that 
which Miss Guest has never learned to 
value.” 

“ How old are you ? ” I said hoarsely. 

“ Nineteen ! ” she snapped out. And 
then for a moment we were both silent. 

“ I begin to understand now,” I an- 


io8 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 


swered slowly as soon as I could conquer 
something in my throat. “ Long ago, 
when I hardly knew you, I hurt your 
woman’s pride ; and since that you have 
plotted ” 

“ No, you have tricked yourself ! ” 

“ And schemed to bring me to your 
feet that you might have the pleasure of 
trampling on me. Miss Guest, your tri- 
umph is complete, more complete than 
you are able to understand. I loved you 
this morning above all the world — as my 
own life — as every hope I had. See, I 
tell you this that you may have a mo- 
ment’s keener pleasure when I am gone." 

“ Don’t !’ Don’t ! ’’ she cried, throwing 
herself into a chair and covering her face. 

“ You have won a man’s heart and cast 
it aside to gratify an old pique. You 
may rest content now, for there is nothing 
wanting to your vengeance. You have 
given me as much pain as a woman, the 
vainest and the most heartless, can give 
a man. Good-by.” 

And with that I was leaving her, fight- 
ing my own pain and passion, so that the 
little hands she raised as though they 
would ward off my words were nothing to 


IN CUPID'S TOILS. 109 

me. I felt a savage delight in seeing 
that I could hurt her, which deadened 
my own grief. The victory was not all 
with her lying there sobbing. Only where 
was my hat? Let me get my hat and 
go. Let me escape from this room 
wherein every trifle upon which my eye 
rested awoke some memory that was a 
pang. Let me get away, and have done 
with it all. 

Where was the hat ? I had brought it 
up. I could not go without it. It must 
be under her chair, by all that was un- 
lucky, for it was nowhere else. I could 
not stand and wait, and so I had to go up 
to her, with cold words of apology upon 
my lips, and being close to her and seeing 
on her wrist, half hidden by fallen hair, 
the scar she had brought home from 
Norway, I don’t know how it was that * 
I fell on my knees by her and cried : 

“ Oh, Bab, I loved you so ! Let us part 
friends.” 

For a moment, silence. Then she 
whispered, her hand in mine : “ Why did 
you not say Bab to begin ? I only told 
you that Miss Guest had not learned to 
value your love.” 


no 


IN CUPID'S TOILS . 


“ And Bab ?” I murmured, my brain in 
a whirl. 

“ Learned long ago, poor girl ! ” 

And the fair, tear-stained face of my 
tyrant looked into mine for a moment, 
and then came quite naturally to its 
resting place. 

“ Now,” she said, when I was leaving, 
“you may have your hat, sir.” 

“ I believe,” I replied, “ that you sat 
upon this chair on purpose.” 

And Bab blushed. I believe she did. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


N a certain morning in last June 
I was stooping to fasten a shoe- 
lace, having taken advantage for 
the purpose of the step of a corner house 
in St. James’ Square, when a man passing 
behind me stopped. 

“ Well ! ” said he aloud, after a short 
pause during which I wondered — I could 
not see him — what he was doing, “the 
meanness of these rich folk is disgusting ! 
Not a coat of paint for a twelvemonth ! 
I should be ashamed to own a house and 
leave it like that ! ” 

The man was a stranger to me, and his 
words seemed as uncalled for as they were 
ill-natured. But being thus challenged I 
looked at the house. It was a great stone 
mansion with a balustrade atop, with 
many windows and a long stretch of area 
railings. And, certainly it was shabby. 



II 


1 1 2 


THE DRIFT OF FA TE. 


I turned from it to the critic. He was 
shabby, too — a little red-nosed man, wear- 
ing a bad hat. “It is just possible,” I 
suggested, “ that the owner may be a 
poor man and unable to keep it in order.” 

“ Ugh ! What has that to do with it ? ” 
my new friend answered contemptuously. 
“ He ought to think of the public.” 

“And your hat?” I asked, with win- 
ing politeness. “ It strikes me, an un- 
prejudiced observer, as a bad hat. Why 
do you not get a new one ? ” 

“ Cannot afford it ! ” he snapped out, 
his dull eyes sparkling with rage. 

“ Cannot afford it ? But, my good 
man, you ought to think of the public.” 

“You tom-cat ! What have you to do 
with my hat ? Smother you ! ” was his 
kindly answer ; and he went on his way 
muttering things uncomplimentary. 

I was about to go mine, and was first 
falling back to gain a better view of the 
house in question, when a chuckle close 
to me betrayed the presence of a listener, 
a thin, gray-haired man, who, hidden by 
a pillar of the porch, must have heard our 
discussion. His hands were engaged 
with a white tablecloth, from which he 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. JI 3 

had been shaking the crumbs. He had 
the air of an upper servant of the best 
class. As our eyes met he spoke. 

“ Neatly put, sir, if I may take the liberty 
of saying so,” he observed with a quiet 
dignity it was a pleasure to witness, “ and 
we are very much obliged to you. The 
man was a snob, sir.” 

“ I am afraid he was,” I answered ; 
“ and a fool too.” 

“ And a fool, sir. Answer a fool after 
his folly. You did that, and he was no- 
where ; nowhere at all, except in the 
swearing line. Now might I ask, he 
continued, “ if you are an American, sir ? ” 

“No, I am not,” I answered; “but I 
have spent some time in the States. 

I could have fancied that he sighed. 

“I thought — but never mind, sir,” he 
began, “ I was wrong, It is curious how 
very much alike gentlemen, that are real 
gentlemen, speak. Now, I dare swear, 
sir, that you have a taste for pictures. 

I was inclined to humor the old fellow s 
mood. “ I like a good picture, I admit,” 
I said. 

“ Then perhaps you would not be 
offended if I asked you to step inside and 


I H THE DRIFT OF FATE. 

look at one or two,” he suggested timidly. 
“ I would not take a liberty, sir, but there 
are some Van Dycks and a Rubens in the 
dining room that cost a mint of money in 
their day, I have heard ; and there is no 
one else in the house but my wife and 
myself.” 

It was a strange invitation, strangely 
brought about. But I saw no reason for 
myself why I should not accept it, and I 
followed him into the hall. It was 
spacious, but sparsely furnished. The 
matted floor had a cold look, and so had 
the gaunt stand which seemed to be a 
fixture, and boasted but one umbrella, one 
sunshade, and one dog-whip. As I passed 
a half-open door I caught a glimpse of a 
a small room prettily furnished, with 
dainty prints and water-colors on the 
walls. But these were of a common 
order. A dozen replicas of each and all 
might be seen in a walk through Bond 
Street. Even this oasis of taste and com- 
fort told the same story as had the bare 
hall and dreary exterior ; and laid, as it 
were, a finger on one’s heart. I trod softly 
as I followed my guide along the strip of 
matting toward the rear of the house. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 1 15 

He opened a door at the inner end of 
the hall, and led me into a large and lofty 
room, built out from the back, as a state 
dining room or ballroom. At present it 
rather resembled the latter, for it was 
without furniture. “ Now,” said the old 
man, turning and respectfully touching 
my sleeve to gain my attention, “ now you 
will not consider your labor lost in com- 
ing to see that, sir. It is a portrait of the 
second Lord Wetherby by Sir Anthony 
Van Dyck, and is judged to be one of the 
finest specimens of his style in existence.” 

I was lost in astonishment ; amazed, 
almost appalled ! My companion stood 
by my side, his face wearing a placid 
smile of satisfaction, his hand pointing 
slightly upward to the blank wall before 
us. The blank wall ! Of any picture, 
there or elsewhere in the room, there was 
no sign. I turned to him and then from 
him, and I felt very sick at heart. The 
poor old fellow was — must be — mad. I 
gazed blankly at the blank wall. “ By 
Van Dyck?” I repeated mechanically. 

“ Yes, sir, by Van Dyck,” he replied, in 
the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable. 
“ So, too, is this one ; ” he moved, as he 


1 16 THE DRIFT OF FATE. 

spoke, a few feet to his left. “ The second 
peer’s first wife in the costume of a lady- 
in-waiting. This portrait and the last are 
in as good a state of preservation as on 
the day they were painted.” 

Oh, certainly mad ! And yet so graphic 
was his manner, so crisp and realistic were 
his words, that I rubbed my eyes ; and 
looked and looked again, and almost 
fancied that Lord Walter and Anne, his 
wife, grew into shape before me on the 
wall. Almost, but not quite ; and it was 
with a heart full of wondering pity that 
I accompanied the old man, in whose 
manner there was no trace of wildness or 
excitement, round the walls; visiting in 
turn the Cuyp which my lord bought in 
Holland, the Rubens, the four Lawrences, 
and the Philips — a very Barmecide feast of 
art. I could not doubt that the old man 
saw the pictures. But I saw only bare walls. 

“ Now I think you have seen them, 
family portraits and all,” he concluded, 
as we came to the doorway again ; stat- 
ing the fact, which was no fact, with com- 
placent pride. “ They are fine pictures, 
sir. They, at least, are left, although the 
house is not what it was.” 


THE DRIFT OF FA TE. 


117 

“Very fine pictures !” I remarked. I 
was minded to learn if he were sane on 
other points. “ Lord Wetherby,” I said ; 
“ I should suppose that he is not in 
London ? ” 

“ I do not know, sir, one way or the 
other,” the servant answered with a new 
air of reserve. “ This is not his lordship’s 
house. Mrs. Wigram, my late lord’s 
daughter-in-law, lives here.” 

“ But this is the Wetherbys’ town 
house,” I persisted. I knew so much. 

“ It was my late lord’s house. At his 
son’s marriage it was settled upon Mrs. 
Wigram ; and little enough besides, God 
knows! ” he exclaimed querulously. “ It 
was Mr. Alfred’s wish that some land 
should be settled upon his wife, but there 
was none out of the entail, and my lord, 
who did not like the match, though he 
lived to be fond enough of the mistress 
afterward, said, ‘ Settle the house in 
town!’ in a bitter kind of joke like. So 
the house was settled, and five hundred 
pounds a year. Mr. Alfred died abroad, 
as you may know, sir, and my lord was 
not long in following him.” 

He was closing the shutters of one win- 


II8 the drift of fate. 

dow after another as he spoke. The room 
had sunk into deep gloom. I could im- 
agine now that the pictures were really 
where he fancied them. “ And Lord 
Wetherby, the late peer?” I asked, after 
a pause, “ did he leave his daughter-in- 
law nothing? ” 

“ My lord died suddenly, leaving no 
will,” he replied sadly. “ That is how it 
all is. And the present peer, who was 
only a second cousin — well, I say nothing 
about him.” A reticence which was well 
calculated to consign his lordship to the 
lowest deep. 

“ He did not help ? ” I asked. 

“ Devil a bit, begging your pardon, sir. 
But there — it is not my place to talk of 
these things. I doubt I have wearied you 
with talk about the family. It is not my 
way,” he added, as if wondering at him- 
self, “ only something in what you said 
seemed to touch a chord like.” 

By this time we were outside the room, 
standing at the inner end of the hall, 
while he fumbled with the lock of the 
door. Short passages ending in swing 
doors ran out right and left from this 
point, and through one of these a tidy, 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


ll 9 

middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, 
suddenly emerged. At sight of me she 
looked greatly astonished. “ I have been 
showing the gentleman the pictures,” said 
my guide, who was still occupied with the 
door. 

A quick flash of pain altered and 
hardened the woman’s face. “ I have 
been very much interested, madam,” I 
said softly. 

Her gaze left me, to dwell upon the old 
man with infinite affection. “ John had 
no right to bring you in, sir,” she said 
primly. “ I have never known him do 
such a thing before, and — Lord ’a’ mercy! 
there is the mistress’s knock. Go, John, 
and let her in ; and this gentleman,” with 
an inquisitive look at me, “ will not mind 
stepping a bit aside, while her ladyship 
goes upstairs.” 

“ Certainly not,” I answered. I 
hastened to draw back into one of the 
side passages, into the darkest corner of 
it, and there stood leaning against the 
cool panels, my hat in my hand. 

In the short pause which ensued before 
John opened the door she whispered to 
me, “ You have not told him, sir ? ” 


120 


THE DRIFT OF FATE . 


“ About the pictures ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. He is blind, you see.” 

“ Blind ? ” I exclaimed. 

“Yes, sir, this year and more; and 
when the pictures were taken away — by 
the present earl — that he had known all 
his life, and been so proud to show to 
people just the same as if they had been 
his own — why, it seemed a shame to tell 
him. I have never had the heart to do it, 
and he thinks they are there to this day.” 

Blind ! I had never thought of that ; 
and while I was grasping the idea now, 
and fitting it to the facts, a light footstep 
sounded in the hall and a woman’s voice 
on the stairs; such a voice and such a 
footstep, that, as it seemed to me, a man, 
if nothing else were left to him, might 
find home in them alone. “Your mis- 
tress,” I said presently, when the sounds 
had died away upon the floor above, “ has 
a sweet voice ; but has not something an- 
noyed her? ” 

“ Well, I never should have thought 
that you would have noticed that ! ” ex- 
claimed the housekeeper, who was, I dare 
say, many other things besides house- 
keeper. “ You have a sharp ear, sir ; that 



KNOCK 



THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


121 


I will say. Yes, there is a something has 
gone wrong ; but to think that an Ameri- 
can gentleman should have noticed it ! ” 

“ I am not American,” I said, perhaps 
testily. 

“ Oh, indeed, sir. I beg your pardon, I 
am sure. It was just your way of speak- 
ing made me think it,” she replied ; and 
then there came a second louder rap at 
the door, as John, who had gone upstairs 
with his mistress, came down in a leisurely 
fashion. 

“ That is Lord Wetherby, drat him ! ” 
he said, on his wife calling to him in a low 
voice ; he was ignorant, I think, of my 
presence. “ He is to be shown into the 
library, and the mistress will see him 
there in five minutes ; and you are to go 
to her room. Oh, rap away ! ” he added, 
turning toward the door, and shaking his 
fist at it. “ There is many a better man 
than you has waited longer at that door.” 

“Hush, John! Do you not see the 
gentleman ? ” interposed his wife, with the 
simplicity of habit. “ He will show you 
out,” she added rapidly to me, “ as soon 
as his lordship has gone in, if you do not 
mind waiting another minute.” 


122 


THE DRIFT OF FATE . 


“ Not at all,” I said, drawing back into 
the corner as they went on their errands ; 
but though I said, “ Not at all,” mine was 
an odd position. The way in which I 
had come into the house, and my present 
situation in a kind of hiding, would have 
made most men only anxious to extricate 
themselves. But I, while listening to 
John parleying with someone at the door, 
conceived a strange desire, or a desire 
which would have been strange in any 
other man, to see this thing to the end ; 
conceived it and acted upon it. 

The library? That was the room on 
the right of the hall, opposite to Mrs. 
Wigram s sitting room. Probably, nay I 
was certain, it had another door opening 
on the passage in which I stood. It 
would cost me but a step or two to con- 
firm my opinion. When John ushered in 
the visitor by one door I had already, 
by way of the other, ensconced myself 
behind a screen, that I seemed to know 
would face it. I was going to listen. 
Perhaps I had my reasons. Perhaps — but 
there, what matter? I, as a fact, listened. 

The room was spacious but somber, 
wainscoted and vaulted with oak. Its 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


123 


only visible occupant was a thin, dark man 
of middle size, with a narrow face, and a 
stubborn feather of black hair rising above 
his forehead ; a man of Welsh type. He 
was standing with his back to the light, a 
roll of papers in one hand. The fingers 
of the other, drumming upon the table, 
betrayed that he was both out of temper 
and ill at ease. While I was still scanning 
him stealthily — I had never seen him 
before — the door was opened, and Mrs. 
Wigram came in. I sank back behind the 
screen. I think some words passed, some 
greeting of the most formal, but though 
the room was still, I failed to hear it, and 
when I recovered myself he was speaking. 

“ I am here at your wish, Mrs. Wigram, 
and your service, too,” he was saying, with 
an effort at gallantry which sat very ill 
upon him, “although I think it would 
have been better if we had left the matter 
to our solicitors.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“Yes. I fancied you were aware of my 
opinion.” 

“ I was ; and I perfectly understand, 
Lord Wetherby, your preference for that 
course,” she replied, with sarcastic cold" 


124 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


ness, which did not hide her dislike for 
him. “ You naturally shrink from telling 
me your terms face to face.” 

“ Now, Mrs. Wigram ! Now, Mrs. Wig- 
ram ! Is not this a tone to be depre- 
cated ? ” he answered, lifting his hands. 
“ I come to you as a man of business upon 
business.” 

“ Business ! Does that mean wringing 
advantage from my weakness?” she 
retorted. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “ I do 
deprecate this tone,” he repeated. “ I 
come in plain English to make you an 
offer; one which you can accept or refuse 
as you please. I offer you five hundred 
a year for this house. It is immensely 
too large for your needs, and too expensive 
for your income, and yet you have in 
strictness no power to let it. Very well, 
I, who can release you from that restric- 
tion, offer you five hundred a year for the 
house. What can be more fair ? ” 

‘‘Fair? In plain English, Lord 
Wetherby, you are the only possible 
purchaser, and you fix the price. Is that 
fair ? The house would let easily for 
twelve hundred.” 


THE DRIFT OF FATE . 125 

“ Possibly,” he retorted, “ if it were in 
the open market. But it is not.” 

“No,” she answered rapidly. “And 
you, having the forty thousand a year 
which, had my husband lived, would have 
been his and mine; you who, a poor man, 
have stepped into this inheritance — you 
offer me five hundred for the family house ! 
For shame, my lord ! for shame ! ” 

“We are not acting a play,” he said 
doggedly, showing that her words had 
stung him in some degree. “The law is 
the law. I ask for nothing but my rights, 
and one of those I am willing to waive in 
your favor. You have my offer.” 

“And if I refuse it? If I let the 
house? You will not dare to enforce the 
restriction.” 

“ Try me,” he rejoined, again drumming 
with his fingers upon the table. “Try 
me, and you will see.” 

“ If my husband had lived ” 

“ But he did not live,” he broke in, los- 
ing patience, “ and that makes all the 
difference. Now, for Heaven’s sake, Mrs. 
Wigram, do not make a scene ! Do you 
accept my offer? ” 

For a moment she had seemed about to 


1 26 


THE DRIFT OF FA TE. 


break down, but her pride coming to the 
rescue, she recovered herself with won- 
derful quickness. 

“ I have no choice,” she said, with 
dignity. 

“ I am glad you accept,” he answered, 
so much relieved that he gave way to an 
absurd burst of generosity. “ Come ! ” he 
cried, “ we will say guineas instead of 
pounds, and have done with it ! ” 

She looked at him in wonder. “No, 
Lord Wetherby,” she said, “ I accepted 
your terms. I prefer to keep to them. 
You said that you would bring the neces- 
sary papers with you. If you have done 
so I will sign them now, and my servants 
can witness them.” 

“ I have the draft, and the lawyer’s 
clerk is no doubt in the house,” he 
answered. “ I left directions for him to 
be here at eleven.” 

“ I do not think he is in the house,” 
the lady answered. “ I should know if 
he were here.” 

“ Not here ! ” he cried angrily. “ Why 
not, I wonder! But I have the skeleton 
lease. It is very short, and to save delay 
I will fill in the particulars, names, and so 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


127 


forth myself, if you will permit me to do 
so. It will not take me twenty minutes.” 

“As you please. You will find a pen 
and ink on the table. If you will kindly 
ring the bell when you are ready, I will 
come and bring the servants.” 

“ Thank you ; you are very good,” he 
said smoothly ; adding, when she had left 
the room. “And the devil take your im- 
pudence, madam ! As for your cursed 
pride — w r ell, it has saved me twenty-five 
pounds a year, and so you are welcome 
to it. I was a fool to make the offer.” 
And with that, now grumbling at the 
absence of the lawyer's clerk and now 
congratulating himself on the saving of 
a lawyer's fee, my lord sat down to his 
task. 

A hansom cab on its way to the East 
India Club rattled through the square, 
and under cover of the noise I stole out 
from behind the screen, and stood in the 
middle of the room, looking down at the 
unconscious worker. If for a -minute I 
felt strongly the desire to raise my hand 
and give his lordship such a surprise as 
he had never in his life experienced, any 
other man might have felt the same ; and, 


128 


THE DRIFT OF FA TE. 


as it was, I put it away and only looked 
quietly about me. Some rays of sun- 
shine, piercing the corner pane of a dulled 
window, fell on and glorified the Wetherby 
coat of arms blazoned over the wide fire- 
place, and so created the one bright spot 
in the bare, dismantled room, which had 
once, unless the tiers of empty shelves 
and the yet lingering odor of Russia lied, 
been lined from floor to ceiling with 
books. My lord had taken the furniture ; 
my lord had taken the books ; my lord 
had taken — nothing but his rights. 

Retreating softly to the door by which 
I had entered, and rattling the handle, I 
advanced afresh into the room. “ Will 
your lordship allow me?” I said, after 
I had in vain coughed twice to gain his 
attention. 

He turned hastily and looked at me 
with a face full of suspicion. Some sur- 
prise on finding another person in the 
room and close to him was natural ; but 
possibly, also, there was something in the 
atmosphere of that house which threw 
his nerves off their balance. “ Who are 
you ? ” he cried, in a tone which matched 
his face. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE . 129 

“ You left orders, my lord,” I explained, 
“ with Messrs. Duggan & Poole that 
a clerk should attend here at eleven. I 
very much regret that some delay has 
unavoidably been caused.” 

u Oh, you are the clerk ! ” he replied 
ungraciously. “You do not look much 
like a lawyer’s clerk.” 

Involuntarily I glanced aside and saw 
in a mirror the reflection of a tall man 
with a thick beard and mustaches, gray 
eyes, and an ugly scar seaming the face 
from ear to ear. “Yet I hope to give 
you full satisfaction, my lord,” I mur- 
mured, dropping my eyes. “ It was un- 
derstood that you needed a confidential 
clerk.” 

“ Well, well, sir, to your work ! ” he re- 
plied irritably. “ Better late than never. 
And after all it may be preferable for you 
to be here and see it duly executed. 
Only you will not forget,” he continued 
hastily, with a glance at the papers, “ that 
I have myself copied four — well, three — 
three full folios, sir, for which an allow- 
ance must be made. But there ! Get on 
with your work. The handwriting will 
speak for itself.” 


130 THE DRIFT OF FATE . 

I obeyed, and wrote on steadily, while 
the earl walked up and down the room, 
or stood at a window. Upstairs sat Mrs. 
Wigram, schooling herself, I dare swear, 
to take this one favor that was no favor 
from the man who had dealt out to her 
such hard measure. Outside a casual 
passer through the square glanced up at 
the great house, and seeing the bent head 
of the secretary and the figure of his com- 
panion moving to and fro, saw, as he 
thought, nothing unusual ; nor had any 
presentiment — how should he ? — of the 
strange scene which the room with the 
dingy windows was about to witness. 

I had been writing for perhaps five 
minutes when Lord Wetherby stopped in 
his passage behind me and looked over 
my shoulder. With a jerk his eye-glasses 
fell, touching my shoulder. 

“ Bless my soul ! ” he exclaimed, “ I 
have seen your handwriting somewhere ; 
and lately too. Where could it have 
been?” 

“Probably among the family papers, 
my lord,” I answered. “ I have several 
times been engaged in the family business 
in the time of the late Lord Wetherby.” 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 13 1 

“Indeed !” There were both curiosity 
and suspicion in his utterance of the word. 
“You knew him?” 

“ Yes, my lord. I have written for him 
in this very room, and he has walked up 
and down, and dictated to me, as you 
might be doing now,” I explained. 

His lordship stopped his pacing to and 
fro, and retreated to the window on the 
instant. But I could see that he was 
interested, and I was not surprised when 
he continued, with' transparent careless- 
ness, “ A strange coincidence ! And may 
I ask what it was upon which you were 
engaged ? ” 

“At that time?” I answered, looking 
him in the face. “ It was a will, my lord.” 

He started and frowned, and abruptly 
resumed his walk up and down. But I 
saw that he had a better conscience than 
I had given him the credit of possessing. 
My shot had not struck fairly where I had 
looked to place it ; and finding this was 
so, I turned the thing over afresh, while 
I pursued my copying. When I had 
finished, I asked him — I think he was 
busy at the time cursing the absence of 
tact in the lower orders — if he would go 


132 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


through the instrument ; and he took my 
seat. 

Where I stood behind him, I was not 
far from the fireplace. While he muttered 
to himself the legal jargon in which he 
was as well versed as a lawyer bred in an 
office, I moved to it ; and, neither missed 
nor suspected, stood looking from his bent 
figure to the blazoned shield which formed 
part of the mantelpiece. If I wavered, 
my hesitation lasted but a few seconds. 
Then, raising my voice, I called sharply, 
“ My lord, there used to be here 

He turned swiftly, and saw where I was. 

“ What the deuce are you doing there, 
sir?” he cried, in boundless astonishment, 
rising to his feet and coming toward me, 
the pen in his hand and his face aflame 
with anger. “You forget ” 

“ A safe — a concealed safe for papers,” 
I continued, cutting him short in my turn. 
“ I have seen the late Lord Wetherby 
place papers in it more than once. The 
spring worked from here. You touch this 
knob ” 

“Leave it alone, sir!” cried the peer 
furiously. 

He spoke too late. The shield had 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 133 

swung gently outward on a hinge, door- 
fashion, and where it had been gaped a 
small open safe, lined with cement. The 
rays of sunshine, that a few minutes before 
had picked out so brightly the gaudy 
quarterings, now fell on a large envelope 
which lay apart on a shelf. It was as 
clean as if it had been put there that 
morning. No doubt the safe was air- 
tight. I laid my hand upon it. “ My 
lord ! ” I cried, turning to look at him 
with ill-concealed exultation, “ here is a 
paper — I think, a will ! ” 

A moment before the veins of his fore- 
head had been swollen, his face dark with 
the rush of blood. His anger died down, 
at sight of the packet, with strange abrupt- 
ness. He regained his self-control, and a 
moment saw him pale and calm, all show 
of resentment confined to a wicked gleam 
in his eye. “ A will ! ” he repeated, with 
a certain kind of dignity, though the hand 
he stretched out to take the envelope 
shook. “ Indeed ! Then it is my place to 
examine it. I am the heir-at-law, and I 
am within my rights, sir/’ 

I feared that he was going to put the 
parcel into his pocket and dismiss me, and 


134 the drift of fate. 

I was considering what course I should 
take in that event, when instead he carried 
the envelope to the table by the window, 
and tore off the cover without ceremony. 
“It is not in your handwriting ?” were 
his first words, and he looked at me with 
a distrust that was almost superstitious. 
No doubt my sudden entrance, my omi- 
nous talk, and my discovery seemed to him 
to savor of the devil. 

“ No,” I replied, unmoved. “ I told 
your lordship that I had written a will at 
the late Lord Wetherby’s dictation. I 
did not say — for how could I know? — 
that it was this one.” 

“ Ah ! ” He hastily smoothed the 
sheets, and ran his eyes over their con- 
tents. When he reached the last page 
there was a dark scowl on his face, and 
he stood a while staring at the signatures; 
not now reading, I think, but collecting 
his thoughts. “ You know the provisions 
of this?” he presently burst forth with 
violence, dashing the back of his hand 
against the paper. “ I say, sir, you know 
the provisions of this?” 

“ I do not, my lord,” I answered. Nor 
did I. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 135 

“ The unjust provisions of this will ! ” he 
repeated, passing over my negative as if 
it had not been uttered. “ Fifty thousand 
pounds to a woman who had not a penny 
when she married his son ! Ay, and the 
interest on another hundred thousand for 
her life ! Why, it is a prodigious income, 
an abnormal income, for a woman ! And 
out of whose pocket is it to come? Out 
of mine, every stiver of it ! It is mon- 
strous ! I say it is ! How am I to keep 
up the title on the income left to me, I 
should like to know?” 

I marveled. I remembered how rich 
he was. I could not refrain from suggest- 
ing that he had still remaining all the real 
property. “ And,” I added, “ I under- 
stood, my lord, that the testator’s person- 
alty was sworn under four hundred thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“You talk nonsense!” he snarled. 
“ Look at the legacies ! Five thousand 
here, and a thousand there, and hundreds 
like berries on a bush ! It is a fortune, a 
decent fortune, clean frittered away ! A 
barren title is all that will be left to me ! ” 

What was he going to do? His face 
was gloomy, his hands were twitching. 


136 THE DRIFT OF FATE . 

“Who are the witnesses, my lord?” I 
asked, in a low voice. 

So low — for, under certain conditions, a 
tone conveys much, very much — that he 
shot a stealthy glance toward the door 
before he answered, “John Williams/’ 

“ Blind,” I replied, in the same low 
tone. 

“William Williams.” 

“ He is dead. He was Mr. Alfred’s 
valet. I remember reading in the news- 
paper that he was with his master, and 
was killed by the Indians at the same 
time.” 

“ True. I remember that that was the 
case,” he answered huskily. “And the 
handwriting is Lord Wetherby’s.” I as- 
sented. Then for fully a minute we were 
silent, while he bent over the will, and I 
stood behind him looking down at him, 
with thoughts in my mind which he could 
as little fathom as could the senseless 
wood upon which I leaned. Yet I, too, 
mistook him. I thought him, to be plain, 
a scoundrel ; and — well, so he was, but a 
mean one. “What is to be done?” he 
muttered at length, speaking rather to 
himself than to me. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


137 


I answered softly, “ I am a poor man, 
my lord,” while inwardly I was quoting, 
“ Quem Dens vult perdere." 

My words startled him. He answered 
hurriedly: “ Just so! just so! So shall I 
be when this cursed paper takes effect. 
A very poor man ! A hundred and fifty 
thousand gone at a blow ! But there, she 
shall have it ! She shall have every penny 
of it ; only,” he continued slowly, “ I do 
not see what difference one more day will 
make.” 

I followed his downcast eyes, which 
moved from the will before him to the 
agreement for the lease of the house ; and 
I did see what difference a day would 
make. I saw and understood and won- 
dered. He had not the courage to sup- 
press the will ; but if he could gain a 
slight advantage by withholding it for a 
few hours, he had the mind to do that. 
Mrs. Wigram, a rich woman, would no 
longer let the house ; she would be under 
no compulsion to do so ; and my lord 
would lose a cheap residence as well as 
his hundred and fifty thousand pounds. 
To the latter loss he could resign himself 
with a sigh ; but he could not bear to 


138 THE DRIFT OF FATE. 

forego the petty gain for which he had 
schemed. “ I think I understand, my 
lord,” I replied. 

“ Of course,” he resumed nervously, 
“ you must be rewarded for making this 
discovery. I will see that it is so. You 
may depend upon me. I will mention 
the case to Mrs. Wigram, and — and, in 
fact, my friend, you may depend upon 
me.” 

“ That will not do,” I said firmly. “ If 
that be all, I had better go to Mrs. Wigram 
at once, and claim my reward a day earlier.” 

He grew very red in the face at receiv- 
ing this check. “You will not, in that 
event, get my good word,” he said. 

“ Which has no weight with the lady,” 
I answered politely but plainly. 

“ How dare you speak so to me?” his 
lordship cried. “ You are an impertinent 
fellow! But there-! How much do you 
want ? ” 

“A hundred pounds.” 

“A hundred pounds for a mere day’s 
delay, which will do no one any harm ! ” 

“ Except Mrs. Wigram,” I retorted 
dryly. “ Come, Lord Wetherby, this 
lease is worth a thousand a year to you. 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


139 


Mrs. Wigram, as you well know, will not 
voluntarily let the house to you. If you 
would have Wetherby House you must 
pay me. That is the long and the short 
of it.” 

“You are an impertinent fellow!” he 
repeated. 

“ So you have said before, my lord.” 

I expected him to burst into a furious 
passion, but I suppose there was a some- 
thing of power in my tone, beyond the 
mere defiance which the words expressed; 
for, instead of doing so, he eyed me with 
a thoughtful, malevolent gaze, and paused 
to consider. “You are at Duggan & 
Poole’s,” he said slowly. “ How was it 
that they did not search this cupboard, 
with which you were acquainted ? ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. “ I have not 
been in the house since Lord Wetherby 
died,” I said. “ My employers did not 
consult me when the papers he left were 
examined.” 

“ You are not a member of the firm ?” 

“ No, I am not,” I answered. I was 
thinking that, so far as I knew those 
respectable gentlemen, no one of them 
would have helped my lord in this for 


140 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


ten times a hundred pounds. My lord ! 
Faugh ! 

He seemed satisfied, and taking out a 
notecase laid on the table a little pile of 
notes. “ There is your money,” he said, 
counting them over with reluctant fingers. 
“ Be good enough to put the will and 
envelope back into the cupboard. To- 
morrow you will oblige me by rediscover- 
ing it — you can manage that, no doubt — 
and giving information at once to Messrs. 
Duggan & Poole, or Mrs. Wigram, as 
you please. Now,” he continued, when I 
had obeyed him, “ will you be good 
enough to ask the servants to tell Mrs. 
Wigram that I am waiting ? ” 

There was a slight noise behind us. “ I 
am here,” said someone. I am sure that 
we both jumped at the sound, for though 
I did not look that way, I knew that the 
voice was Mrs. Wigram’s, and that she 
was in the room. “ I have come to tell 
you, Lord Wetherby,” she went on, “that 
I have an engagement from home at 
twelve. Do I understand, however, that 
you are ready ? If so, I will call in Mrs. 
Williams.” 

“ The papers are ready for signature,” 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


141 

the peer answered, betraying some con- 
fusion, “ and I am ready to sign. I shall 
be glad to have the matter settled as 
agreed.” Then he turned to me, where I 
had fallen back, as seemed becoming, to 
the end of the room, and said, “ Be good 
enough to ring the bell, if Mrs. Wigram 
permit it.” 

As I moved to the fireplace to do so, I 
was conscious that the lady was regarding 
me with some faint surprise. But when 
I had regained my position and looked 
toward her, she was standing near the 
window, gazing steadily out into the 
square, an expression of disdain rendered 
by face and figure. Shall I confess that 
it was a joy to me to see her fair head so 
high, and to read, even in the outline of 
her girlish form, a contempt which I, and 
I only, knew to be so justly based ? For 
myself, I leaned against the edge of the 
screen by the door, and perhaps my 
hundred pounds lay heavily on my heart. 
As for him, he fidgeted with his papers, 
although they were all in order, and was 
visibly impatient to get his bit of knavery 
accomplished. Oh, he was a worthy 
man ! And Welshman ! 


I 4 2 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


“ Perhaps/' he presently suggested, for 
the sake of saying something, “while 
your servant is coming, you will read the 
agreement, Mrs. Wigram. It is very 
short, and, as you know, your solicitors 
have already seen it in the draft." 

She bowed, and took the paper negli- 
gently. She read some way down the 
first sheet with a smile, half careless, half 
contemptuous. Then I saw her stop — 
she had turned her back to the window 
to obtain more light — and dwell on a 
particular sentence. I saw — God ! I 
had forgotten the handwriting ! — I saw 
her gray eyes grow large, and fear leap 
into them, as she grasped the paper with 
her other hand, and stepped nearer to 
the peer’s side. “ Who ? " she cried. 
“Who wrote this ? Tell me! Do you 
hear? Tell me quickly ! " 

He was nervous on his own account, 
wrapped in his own piece of scheming, 
and obtuse. 

“ I wrote it," he said, with maddening 
complacency. He put up his glasses 
and glanced at the top of the page 
she held out to him. “ I wrote it my- 
self, and I can assure you that it is quite 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 143 

right, and a faithful copy. You do not 
think ” 

“ Think! think! No! no. This, I 
mean ! Who wrote this ?” she cried, awe 
in her face, and a suppliant tone, strange 
as addressed to that man, in her voice. 

He was confounded by her vehemence, 
as well as hampered by his own evil con- 
science. 

“ The clerk, Mrs. Wigram, the clerk, 
he said petulantly, still in his fog of self- 
ishness. “ The clerk from Messrs. 
Duggan & Poole’s.” 

“ Where is he ? ” she cried out breath- 
lessly. I think she did not believe him. 

“ Where is he? ” he repeated, in queru- 
lous surprise. “ Why here, of course. 
Where should he be, madam ? He will 
witness my signature.” 

Would he ? Signatures ! It was little 
of signatures I recked at that moment. I 
was praying to Heaven that my folly 
might be forgiven me ; and that my 
lightly planned vengeance might not fall 
on my own head. u Joy does not kill, 

I was saying to myself, repeating it over 
and over again, and clinging to it desper- 
ately. “Joy does not kill!” But oh! 


144 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


was it true ? in face of that white-lipped 
woman ! 

“ Here ! ” She did not say more, but 
gazing at me with great dazed eyes, she 
raised her hand and beckoned to me. 
And I had no choice but to obey ; to go 
nearer to her, out into the light. 

“ Mrs. Wigram,” I said hoarsely, my 
voice sounding to me only as a whisper, 
“ I have news of your late — of your hus- 
band. It is good news.” 

“ Good news ? ” Did she faintly echo 
my words ? or, as her face, from which all 
color had passed, peered into mine, and 
searched it in infinite hope and infinite 
fear, did our two minds speak without 
need of physical lips ? “ Good news ? ” 

“ Yes,” I whispered. “ He is alive. 

The Indians did not ” 

“ Alfred ! ” Her cry rang through the 
room, and with it I caught her in my arms 
as she fell. Beard and long hair, and scar 
and sunburn, and strange dress — these 
which had deceived others were no dis- 
guise to her — my wife. I bore her gently 
to the couch, and hung over her in a new 
paroxysm of fear. “ A doctor ! Quick ! 
A doctor!” I cried to Mrs. Williams, who 


THE DRIFT OF FATE. 


*45 

was already kneeling beside her. “ Do 
not tell me,” I added piteously, “that I 
have killed her ! ” 

“No! no! no!” the good woman an- 
swered, the tears running down her face. 
“ Joy does not kill ! ” 

An hour later this fear had been lifted 
from me, and I was walking up and down 
the library alone with my thankfulness ; 
glad to be alone, yet more glad, more 
thankful still, when John came in with a 
beaming face. “ You have come to tell 
me,” I cried eagerly, pleased that the 
tidings had come by his lips, “to go to 
her ? That she will see me ? ” 

“ Her ladyship is sitting up,” he 
replied. 

“And Lord Wetherby?” I asked, paus- 
ing at the door to put the question. “ He 
left the house at once ? ” 

“Yes, my lord, Mr. Wigram has been 
gone some time.” 


A BLORE MANOR 
EPISODE. 


very remarkable was this 
rtship: there was nothing 
y strange about it, or more 
romantic than is apt to be the case with 
such things. I doubt not that since the 
daughters of the children of men were 
wooed, there have been many millions of 
such May-time passages of greater inter- 
est, and that countless Pauls and Virginias 
have plucked the sweet spring flowers to- 
gether amid more picturesque surround- 
ings. Every matron — and some maids, if 
they will, though we deprecate the omen 
— can recall at least one wooing which she 
can vouch as a thousand million times 
more extraordinary than that of my com- 
monplace hero and heroine. That is so: 
but for that very reason let her read of 
this one, and taking off the cover of her 

146 



A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 147 

own potpourri savor some faint scent 
of the dewy roses of the past spring- 
time. 

It had its origin in the 12:10 down 
train from Euston to Holyhead, which 
carried, among other passengers, Charles 
Maitland of the Temple, barrister by 
theory and idler by, or for want of, 
practice. He traveled first-class. When 
you come to know him better you will 
understand how superfluous was this last 
piece of information. Ten minutes before 
the train was due out, he arrived at the 
station in a hansom. A silk hat, a well- 
fitting light overcoat — the weather, for 
March, was mild — gray trousers, and 
brown gaiters over his patent-leather 
boots were the most salient details of a 
costume of which the chief characteristic 
was an air of perfect correctness. At the 
bookstall he did not linger, culling with 
loving eyes the backs of many books, and 
reveling in his choice with florin in hand, 
as do second-class passengers, but without 
hesitation he purchased a Saturday Re- 
view and a Cornhill Magazine. After he 
had taken his seat a Smith’s boy invited 
him to select from a tray, upon which 


148 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 

glowed half a dozen novels; but he gazed 
sublimely into vacancy over the boy’s 
head ; who soon left him, and prompted 
by a vengeful spirit only inferior to his 
precocious knowledge of passenger nature, 
directed upon him the attacks of two kin- 
dred sprites with Banbury cakes and 
British sherry. The window was slight 
protection against their shrill voices, but 
soon the train started and freed him from 
them. He changed his hat for a brown 
deer-stalker, and having the compartment 
to himself, had recourse to his own 
thoughts. It was not unlikely, he told 
himself, that he had been precipitate in 
undertaking this journey. An Easter, 
coming somewhat early, seemed to have 
forestalled his wonted invitations for that 
season : and, to stay in London being out 
of the question, he had accepted Tom 
Quaritch’s offer. He began to have 
doubts of the wisdom of this course now, 
but it was too late. He was bound for 
Tom Quaritch’s. He had known some- 
thing of Tom at college; and recently he 
had done him a slight service in town. 
No more genial soul than the latter 
existed, and he did not rest satisfied until 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 149 

he had won from Maitland a half promise 
to come and see his beagles at Easter. 
At the time our traveler had but the 
remotest idea of doing so. He did not 
know enough of Tom’s people, while to 
have the acquaintance of the right people 
and of no one else was part of his creed. 
But now he was between the horns of a 
dilemma. These people, of whom he 
knew nothing, might not be the right 
people; that was one horn. The other 
consisted in the fact that to spend a vaca- 
tion in town was not the thing. When 
w.e have chosen our horn it is natural it 
should seem the sharper of the two. Mr. 
Charles Maitland frowned as he cut the 
pages of his Cornhill. And then he made 
up his mind to two things. Firstly, to 
bring his stay at Blore Manor within the 
smallest possible limits, and secondly, to 
comport himself while there with such a 
formal courtesy as should encourage only 
the barest familiarity. 

At Stafford he had to change into 
another train, which he did, even as he 
cut his magazine, with characteristic pre- 
cision and coolness. And so he reached 
Blore Station about half-past five, still 


150 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 

neat and unsullied, with all the aroma of 
the street of scents about him. 

He let down the window and put out 
his head. The country thereabouts was 
flat and uninteresting, the farming un- 
tidy, the fences low, yet straggling. A 
short distance away a few roofs peeping 
forth from a clump of trees, above which 
the smoke gently curled, marked the 
village. The station consisted of a mere 
shed and a long, bare platform. There 
were but five persons visible, and of these 
one was a porter, and one a man servant 
in a quiet, countrified livery. The latter 
walked quickly toward him, but was fore- 
stalled by three girls, the other occupants 
of the platform, who, at sight of the 
stranger, came tearing from the far end 
of it at a headlong pace. 

“Here he is! Here he is!” cried the 
foremost, her shrill voice drawing a dozen 
heads to the windows of the train. She 
owed her success to an extempore tug in 
the form of an excited bull terrier, which, 
dragging violently at a strap attached to 
her wrist, jerked her after him much as if 
she had been a kettle tied to his tail. She 
might be anything between twenty and 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 15 1 

five-and -twenty — a tiny little creature of 
almost fairylike proportions. Her color 
was high and her hair brown ; she had 
curiously opaque brown eyes, bright as 
well as opaque. Gloves she had none, and 
her hair was disordered by her struggles 
with the dog. But, after all, the main 
impression she made upon Maitland was 
that she was excessively small. He had 
no eyes for the others at present. But 
one, owing to the reckless method of her 
progression, gave him a dim notion of 
being all legs. 

“You are Mr. Maitland, are you not?” 
the first comer began volubly, though loss 
of breath interfered a little with the sym- 
metry of her sentences. “Tom had to 
attend a meeting of the fox committee at 
Annerley. I’m Maggie Quaritch, and this 
is Dubs — I beg your pardon, how silly of 
me — Joan, I mean, and this is Agnes. 
Why, child, what have you done with 
your hat? Pick it up at once! What 
wild things Mr. Maitland will think us !” 

The youngest girl, whose hat was lying 
upon the platform some distance away, 
hung her head in a very pretty attitude of 
shy gaucherie . She was about fifteen — 


152 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

rising sixteen in her brother’s phrase — 
and taller than the elder girls, with a 
peculiarly pale complexion, greenish-gray 
eyes, and a mass of brownish-red hair. 
Her loosely made dress was more in con- 
sonance with her style than Maitland, 
staggering under the shock of such a 
reception, had time or mind to observe. 
He formally acknowledged the introduc- 
tions, but words did not come easily to 
him. He was dumfounded. He was so 
unaccustomed to this, or to people like 
these. 

“And we must not forget Bill,” re- 
sumed Miss Quaritch, if possible, faster 
than before. “Isn’t he a beauty now, 
Mr. Maitland? Look at his chest, look at 
his head, look at his eyes. Yes, he lost 
that one in a fight with Jack Madeley’s 
retriever, and I’m afraid the sight of the 
other is going, but he’s the most beauti- 
ful, loveliest, faithfullest dog in the whole 
world for all that, and his mother loves 
him, she does!” All in a shrill tone, 
rising a note perhaps with the final words. 

The train was moving out. The last 
that the twelve faces, still glued to the 
carriage windows, beheld of the scene was 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 153 

Miss Quaritch rapturously kissing and 
hugging the bull terrier, while the Lon- 
doner looked on sheepishly. He was 
horribly conscious of the presence of those 
grinning faces and suffered as much until 
the train left as if the onlookers had been 
a dozen of his club comrades. Whereas 
the fact was that they found whatever 
amusement the scene afforded them not 
in the girl’s enthusiasm — she was young 
enough to gush prettily — but in the 
strange gentleman’s awkward conscious- 
ness. 

“Now, Mr. Maitland, shall Abiah drive 
you up in the dog cart, or will you walk 
with us? Agnes!’’ this suddenly in a 
loud scream to the youngest girl, who 
had moved away, “you can let out the 
dogs! Down, Juno! Go down, Jack o’ 
Pack! Roy, you ill-conditioned little 
dog, you are always quarreling! I’m 
afraid they will make you in a dreadful 
pickle.’’ 

Indeed it seemed to Maitland that they 
would. An avalanche of scurrying dogs 
descended upon him from some receptacle 
where they had been penned. He had 
a vision of a red Irish setter with soft 


154 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

brown eyes, not unlike to, but far finer 
than Miss Maggie’s, with its paws momen- 
tarily upon the breast of his overcoat ; of 
a couple of wiry fox terriers skirmishing 
and snarling round his trousers, and of a 
shy, lop-eared beagle puppy casting miser- 
able glances at them from an outside 
place. And then the party got under 
way in some sort of order. At first Mait- 
land had much ado to answer yes and no. 

He was still bewildered by these things, 
crushed, confounded. 

He could have groaned as he sedately 
explained at what time he left Euston, 
and where he changed. He was con- 
scious that when their attention was not 
demanded by the pack of dogs, the girls 
were covertly scrutinizing him ; but in his 
present state of mind, it mattered not a 
straw to him whether they were calling 
him a prig, and a “stick,” and affected, 
and supercilious, or were admiring half in 
scorn the fit of his clothes and boots, and 
his lordly air. All these remarks were 
in fact made by some one or other of them 
before the day was over. But he was, 
and would have been, supremely indiffer- 
ent to their criticisms. 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 155 

The weight of the conversation did not 
fall heavily upon him: indeed, when Miss 
Quaritch had a share in it, no one else 
was overburdened. And from time to 
time they met upon the road old women 
or children to whom the girls had always 
something to say. It was, “Well, Mrs. 
Marjoram, and so the donkey is better,” 
or, “Now, Johnny, get along home to 
your mother,” or, “How are you, daddy?” 
in the high-pitched key so trying to the 
cockney’s ear. 

In these parleys Joan, the second girl, 
was foremost. Maitland glanced at her. 
A young man may be very fastidious, but 
neck-ribbons awry and brown hair in rich 
disorder do not entirely close his eyes to 
a maiden’s comeliness. It would be 
strange if they did, were she such an one 
as Joan Quaritch. Not tall, yet tall 
enough, with a full, rounded figure, to 
which her dress hardly did, hardly could 
do, justice, she moved with the grace and 
freedom of perfect health. Her fair com- 
plexion could afford to have its clearness 
marred by a freckle or two, such as hers, 
mere clots in cream ; and if her features 
were not perfect, yet a nose too straight 


156 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

and a chin too heavy were more than 
redeemed by great gray eyes that, sunny 
or tearful, could be nothing but true — eyes 
whose frankness and good fellowship ag- 
gravated the wounds they inflicted. Why 
she was called 44 Dubs” I cannot tell. Per- 
haps no one can. But, in her good nature 
and her truth, her simple pride and inde- 
pendence, it suited her. 

He had just, to quote the language of 
this cynic’s thoughts, catalogued the last 
of the Graces, when the party reached the 
house, which stood some way back from 
the road. Tom Quaritch had just re- 
turned, and welcomed the guest warmly; 
his mother met Maitland at the drawing- 
room door. She was a singularly comely 
woman, stately and somewhat formal. 
Her greeting so differed from that of her 
daughters that the visitor found himself 
speculating upon the extraordinary flighti- 
ness of the late Mr. Quaritch. Wherein 
I doubt not he did him injustice. 

At dinner our hero had in some degree 
recovered himself, and he told them the 
latest news of the theaters, the clubs, and 
the book world, and while their ignorance 
filled him with a wonder he did not hide, 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 157 

their attention propitiated him. He 
talked well, and if he was inclined to lord 
it a little, a shrewd word from Mrs. Quar- 
itch, or a demure glance from Miss Joan’s 
eyes, would lower his didactic tone. The 
youngest girl promised to be an especial 
thorn in his side. 

“Does everyone in London wear shiny 
boots in the daytime, Mr. Maitland?” she 
asked suddenly, a propos des bottes , and 
nothing else. 

“A considerable number do, Miss 
Agnes.” 

“What sort of people? No, I’m not 
being rude, mother.” 

“Well, I hardly know how to answer 
that. The idle people, perhaps.” He 
smiled indulgently, which aggravated the 
young lady. She replied, crumbling her 
bread the while in an absent, meditative 
way, her eyes innocently fixed on his face : 

“Then you are one of the idle people, 
Mr. Maitland? I don’t think I like idle 
people.” 

“How singularly unselfish of you, my 
dear Agnes!” put in Joan vigorously — 
more vigorously than politely. 

Maitland’s last reflection as he got into 


158 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

bed was that he was quite out of place 
here. These might be very nice people 
in then way, but not in his way. He 
must make his visit as short as possible, 
and forget all about it as quickly as he 
could. The girls would be insufferable 
when they came to know him familiarly. 
Good gracious! fancy young ladies who 
had never heard of “John Inglesant,” or 
of W. D. Howells’ books, and confused 
the Grosvenor Gallery with the Water 
Color Exhibition! and read Longfellow! 
and had but vague ideas of the aesthetic ! 
Miss Joan was pretty too, yes, really 
pretty, and had fine eyes and a pleasant 
voice, and fine eyes — yes, fine eyes. And 
with this thought he fell comfortably 
asleep. 

He came down next morning to find 
her alone in the breakfast room. A short- 
skirted beagling costume of scarlet and 
blue allowed him a glimpse of neat ankles 
in scarlet hose. She was kneeling before 
the fire playing with Roy. Her brown 
wavy hair fell in a heavy loose loop upon 
her neck, and there was something won- 
derfully bright and fresh in her whole 
appearance. 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 159 

“How quickly you have fallen in with 
our barbarous ways !” she said with a smile, 
as she rose. “I did not expect you to be 
up for hours yet.” 

“I generally breakfast at nine, and it is 
nearly that now,” he answered, annoyed 
by some hint of raillery in her tone, and 
yet unable to conceal a glance of admira- 
tion. “I think I must adopt the Blore 
breakfast hour; it seems, Miss Joan, to 
agree with you all so well.” 

“Yes,” was the indifferent reply; “we 
get the first of the three rewards for early 
rising. The other two we leave for our 
betters.” 

And she turned away with a little nod 
as the others came in. In five minutes 
a noisy, cheerful breakfast was in progress, 
and the chances of finding a hare formed 
the all-engrossing subject of conversation. 

On this calm gray morning, warm 
rather than cold, the little pack, to the 
great delight of the household, found 
quickly, and found well. No October 
leveret was before them, but a good, 
stout old hare, who gave them a ringing 
run of two hours, the pleasure of which 
was not materially diminished when she 


160 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

baffled them at last in the mysterious 
way these old hares affect and huntsmen 
fail to fathom. The visitor performed 
creditably, though in indifferent training. 
At Oxford he had been something of a 
crack, and could still upon occasion for- 
get to keep his boots clean and his 
clothes intact. 

Returning home, Maitland found him- 
self again with Joan. The heat and 
pleasure of the chase had for the time 
melted his reserve and thawed his resolu- 
tion. He talked well and freely to her of 
a great London hospital over which one 
of the house surgeons had recently taken 
him; of the quiet and orderliness of the 
lone, still wards; of the feeling that came 
over him there that life was all suffering 
and death ; and how quickly in the bustle 
of the London streets, where the little 
world of the hospital seemed distant and 
unreal, this impression faded away. She 
listened eagerly, and he, tasting a stealthy 
and stolen pleasure in seeing how deep 
and pitiful the gray eyes could grow, pro- 
longed his tale. 

“I have enjoyed hearing about it so 
much,” she said gratefully, as they en- 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 161 

tcred the village. And indeed she had 
passed several people upon the road with- 
out a word of greeting. “I hope to be a 
nurse soon. The dear mother does not 
think me old enough yet.” 

“You are going to be a nurse!” he said 
in tones of such incredulous surprise that 
the amusement which first appeared in 
her face changed to annoyance. 

“Why not? One does not need a 
knowledge of art and the newest books 
for that,” she sharply answered. 

“Perhaps not,” he said feebly. “But 
after such a life as this, it — the change 
I mean — would be so complete.” 

She looked at him, an angry gleam 
in her eyes, and the color high in her 
cheeks. 

“Do you think, Mr. Maitland, that 
because we run wild — oh, no, you have 
not said so — and seem to do nothing but 
enjoy ourselves, we are incapable of any- 
thing beyond hunting and playing tennis, 
and feeding the dogs and the hens and 
the chickens? That we cannot have a 
thought beyond pleasure, or a wish to do 
good like other people — people in Lon- 
don? That we can never look beyond 


162 a blore manor episode . 

Blore — though Blore, I can tell you, 
would manage ill without some of us! — 
nor have an aspiration above the kennels 
and the — and the stables? If you do 
think so, I trust you are wrong.” 

He would have answered humbly, but 
she was gone into the house in huge indig- 
nation, leaving our friend strangely un- 
comfortable. It was just twenty-four 
hours since his arrival : the opinion of one 
at least of the madcaps had ceased to be 
a matter of indifference to him. The 
change occurred to himself as he mounted 
the stairs, so that he laughed when alone 
in his room and resolved to keep away 
from that girl for the future. How hand- 
some she had looked when she was flying 
out at him, and how generous seemed her 
anger even at the time! Somehow the 
prospect of the four days he had still to 
spend at Blore was not so depressing as at 
first. Certainly the vista was shortened 
by one day, and that may have been the 
reason. 

Meanwhile Maggie, in her sister’s bed- 
room, had much to say of the day’s doings. 
“Didn’t he go well? My word ! he is not 
half so stiff as I thought him. I believe 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 163 

he’d be a very good fellow if he had some 
of the conceit taken out of him.” 

‘‘I think he’s insufferable,” was the 
chilling answer from Joan; “he considers 
us savages, and treats us as such.” 

“He may consider us fit for the Zoo, if 
he likes; it won’t hurt us,” quoth Maggie 
indifferently. With which Joan expressed 
neither assent nor dissent, but brushed 
her hair a little faster. 

Maitland did not for a moment abandon 

✓ 

his fresh resolution. Still he thought he 
owed it to himself to set the matter right 
with the young lady before he stiffened 
anew. As he descended he met her Tun- 
ing up two steps at a time. 

“Miss Joan, I am afraid I vexed you 
just now,” he said, with grave humility. 
"Will you believe it unintentional — • 
stupid, on my part, and grant me your 
pardon?” 

"Oh, dear!” she cried gayly. " We are 
not used to this here. It is quite King 
Cophetua and the beggar maid.” She 
dropped him a mock courtesy, and held 
out her hand in token of amity, when the 
full signification of what she had said 
rushed into her mind and flooded her face 


1 64 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 


with crimson. Without another word or 
look she fled upstairs, and he heard her 
door bang behind her. 

Mr. Charles Maitland, after this ren- 
contre, went down smiling grimly. In 
the hall he stood for a moment in deep 
thought ; then sagely shook his head 
several times at a stuffed fox and joined 
the party in the drawing room. 

The next day and the next passed with 
surprising quickness, as the latter days of 
a visit always do. In another forty-eight 
hours Maitland’s would be over. Yet 
singularly enough his spirits did not rise, 
as he expected they would, at the near 
prospect of release. As he closed his 
bedroom door he had a vision of a pair of 
gray eyes smiling into his, and his palm 
seemed still to tingle with the touch of a 
soft, warm hand. He had kept his resolu- 
tion well — small credit to him. Joan had 
seemed to avoid him since her unlucky 
speech upon the stairs; when she did 
speak to him her words, or more often 
her tone, stung him, and he smarted under 
a sense that she repaid with interest the 
small account in which he was inclined to 
hold the family generally. He resented 



































'•<& &Vi 



MR. CHARLES MAITLAND, AFTER THIS RENCONTRE 
WENT DOWN SMILING GRIMLY. 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 165 

her veiled contempt with strange bitter- 
ness, so that Agnes remarked with her 
usual candor that he and Joan never 
spoke to one another save to “jangle.” 
Afterward, walking on the lawn, some line 
about ‘'sweet bells jangled out of tune,” 
ran in his head. The girl was a vixen, he 
said to himself, yet he tried to imagine 
how tender and glorious the great gray 
eyes, that he only knew as cold or saucy 
or defiant, could be when their depths 
were stirred by love. But his imagination 
failing to satisfy even himself, he went to 
put on his beagling dress in the worst of 
humors. 

Possibly this made him a trifle reckless, 
for a promising run ended in ten minutes 
so far as he was concerned, in a sprained 
ankle. In jumping over a low fence into 
a lane his one foot came down sideways 
on a large stone upon which some pauper 
had scamped his work, and the mischief 
was done. The ominous little circle that 
hunting men know so well soon gathered 
round him, and he was helped to his feet, 
or rather foot. Then Agnes fetched the 
carriage, and he was driven back to Blore. 
Now, under the circumstances, what could 


1 66 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 

Mrs. Quaritch, without an arriere penste 
in the world, do but press him to stay 
until at least he could put the foot to the 
ground? Nothing. And what could he 
do but consent ? At any rate, that is what 
he did. 

So he was established in the drawing 
room, a pretty, cozy room, and told him- 
self it was a terrible nuisance. But, for a 
cripple confined to a couple of rooms, and 
surrounded by uncongenial people, with- 
out a single new magazine or a word of 
the world’s gossip, he kept up his spirits 
wonderfully well. The ways of the three 
girls, and the calm approval of their sedate 
mother, could not fail to amuse him. 
Lying there and seeing and hearing many 
things which would not have come to his 
knowledge as a mere visitor, he found 
them not quite what he had judged them 
to be. He missed Joan one morning, and 
when with an unconscious fretfulness he 
inquired the reason, learned that she had 
been sitting up through the night with an 
old servant who was ill in the village. He 
said some word about it to her — very 
diffidently, for she took his compliments 
but ill at all times; now she flamed out at 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 167 

him with twice her ordinary bitterness 
and disdain, and punished him by taking 
herself out of the room at once. 

“Confound it !” he cried, beating up his 
pillow fiercely, “I believe the girl hates 
me.” 

Did he? and did she? 

Then he fell into a fit of musing such as 
men approaching thirty, who have lived in 
London, are very apt to indulge in. A 
club was not everything, be it as good as 
it might be. And life was not a lounge 
in Bond Street and Pall Mall, and nothing 
more. He thought how dull a week spent 
on his sofa in the Adelphi would have 
been, even with the newest magazines and 
the fifth and special Globes. In three days 
was his birthday — his twenty-ninth. And 
did the girl really hate him? It was a 
nice name, Joan; Dubs, umph ! Dubs? 
Joan? And so he fell asleep. 

How long he slept and whether he 
carried something of his dreams into his 
waking he could only guess, but he was 
aroused by a singular sensation — singular 
in that, though once familiar enough, it 
was now as strange to him as the sight of 
his dead mother’s face. If his half- 


1 68 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

recalled senses did not deceive him, if he 
was not still dreaming of Joan, the warm 
touch of a pair of soft lips was yet linger- 
ing upon his forehead, the rustle of a dress 
very near his ear yet sounded crisply in it. 
And then someone glided from him, and 
he heard a hasty exclamation and opened 
his eyes dreamily. By the screen which 
concealed the door and sheltered him from 
its draughts was standing Joan, a-tiptoe, 
poised as in expectation, something be- 
tween flight and amusement in her face, 
her attitude full of unconscious grace. 
He was still bewildered, and hardly re- 
turned from a dreamland even less con- 
ventional than Blore. Without as much 
surprise as if he had thought the matter 
out — it seemed then almost a natural 
thing — he said : 

“You shall have the gloves, Dubs, with 
pleasure/’ 

The girl’s expression, as he spoke, 
changed to startled astonishment. She 
became crimson from her hair to her 
throat. She stepped toward him, checked 
herself, then made a quick movement with 
her hand as if about to say something, and 
finally covered her face with her hands 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 169 

and fled from the room. Before he was 
wide awake he was alone. 

At first he smiled pleasantly at the fire, 
and patted Roy, Joan’s terrier, who was 
lying . beside him, curled up snugly in an 
angle of the sofa. Afterward he became 
grave and thoughtful, and finally shook 
his head very much as he had at the 
stuffed fox in the hall. And so he 
fidgeted till Roy, who was in a restful 
mood, retired to the hearthrug. 

It would be hard to describe Joan’s feel- 
ings that afternoon. She was proud, and 
had begun by resenting for all of them the 
ill-concealed contempt of Tom’s London 
friend — this man of clubs and chit-chat. 
She was quite prepared to grant that he 
was different from them, but not superior. 
A kind of contempt for the veneer and 
polish which were his pride was natural 
to her, and she showed this, not rudely 
nor coquettishly, but with a hearty sin- 
cerity. Still, it is seldom a girl is unaware 
of admiration, and rare that she does not 
in secret respect self-assertion in the male 
creature. This man knew much too, 
and could tell it well, that was strange 
and new and delightful to the country 


170 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

maiden. If he had any heart at all — and 
since he was from London town she sup- 
posed he had not, though she granted him 
eyes and fine perceptions of the beautiful — 
she might have, almost, some day, prom- 
ised herself to like him, had he been of 
her world — not reflecting that this very 
fact that he was out of her world formed 
the charm by which he evoked her inter- 
est. As things were, she more than 
doubted of his heart, and had no doubt at 
all that between their worlds lay a great, 
impassable, unbridgeable abyss. 

But this afternoon the dislike, which 
had been fading day by day along with 
those feelings in another which had 
caused it, was revived in its old strength 
upon the matter of the kiss. Alone in 
her own room the thought made her turn 
crimson with vexation, and she stamped 
the floor with annoyance. He had made 
certain overtures to her — slender and 
meaningless in all probability. Still, if 
he could believe her capable after such 
looks and words as he had used — if after 
these he thought her capable of this, then 
indeed, were there no abyss at all, he could 
be nothing to her. Oh, it was too bad, too 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 17 1 

intolerable ! She would never forgive 
him. How indeed could she be anything 
to him, if she could do such a thing, as 
dreadful, as unmaidenly to her as to 
the proudest beauty among his London 
friends. She told herself again that he 
was insufferable; and determined to slap 
Roy well, upon the first opportunity, if 
that mistaken little pearl of price would 
persist in favoring the stranger’s sofa. 

Until this was cleared up she felt her 
position the very worst in the world, and 
yet would not for a fortune give him an 
opportunity of freeing her from it. The 
very fact that he addressed her with, as 
it seemed, a greater show of respect, 
chafed her. Agnes, with a precocious 
cleverness, a penetration quite her own, 
kept herself and her dog, Jack o’ Pack 
alias Johnny Sprawn, out of her sister’s 
way, and teased her only before company. 

But at last Maitland caught Miss Joan 
unprotected. 

“I hope that these are the right size, 
Miss Joan — they are six and a quarter,” 
he said boldly, yet with, for a person of 
his disposition and breeding, a strange 
amount of shamefacedness; producing at 


IT 2 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

the same time a pair of gloves, Cour- 
voisier’s best, many-buttoned, fit for a 
goddess. 

“I beg your pardon?” she said, breath- 
ing quickly. But she guessed what he 
meant. 

“Let me get out of your debt.” 

“Out of my debt, Mr. Maitland?” tak- 
ing the gloves mechanically. 

“Please. Did you think I had for- 
gotten? I should find it hard to do that,” 
he continued, encouraged and relieved by 
having got rid of the gloves, and inatten- 
tive at the moment to her face. Yet she 
looked long at him searchingly. 

“I have found it hard to understand 
you,” she said at last, with repressed anger 
in voice and eye; “very hard, Mr. Mait- 
land ; but I think I do so now. Do you 
believe that it was I who kissed you when 
you were asleep on Wednesday afternoon? 
Can you think so? You force me to 
presume it is so. Your estimate of my 
modesty and of your own deserts must 
differ considerably. I had not the honor. 
Your gloves” — and she dropped them up- 
on the floor as if the touch contaminated 
her, the act humiliating the young gentle- 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 173 

man at least as much as her words — “you 
had better give to Agnes, if you wish to 
observe a silly custom. They are due to 
her, not to me. I thank you, Mr. Mait- 
land, for having compelled me to give this 
pleasant explanation.” 

She turned away with a gesture of such 
queenly contempt that our poor hero — 
now most unheroic, and dumb as Carlyle 
would have had his, only with mortifica- 
tion and intense disgust at his stupidity — 
amazed that he could ever have thought 
meanly of this girl, “who moved most cer- 
tainly a goddess,” had not a word to 
express his sorrow. A hero utterly crest- 
fallen! But at the door she looked back, 
for some strange reason known perchance 
to female readers. The gloves were on 
the floor, just beyond his reach — poor, for- 
lorn, sprawling objects, their fingers and 
palms spread as in ridiculous appeal. As 
for him, he was lying back on the sofa, in 
appearance so crushed and helpless that 
the woman’s pity ever near her eyes 
moved her. She went slowly back, and 
picked up the gloves, and put them on 
the table where he could take them. 

“Miss Joan,” he said, in a tone of per- 


174 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 


sistence that claimed a hearing, and, start- 
ing far from the immediate trouble, was 
apt to arouse curiosity; “we are always, 
as Agnes says, jangling — on my side, of 
course, is the false note. Can we not 
accord better, and be better friends?” 

“Not until we learn to know one an- 
other better,” she said coldly, looking 
down at him, “or become more discerning 
judges.” 

“I was a fool, an idiot, an imbecile!” 
She nodded gravely, still regarding him 
from a great height. “I was mad to be- 
lieve it possible !” 

“I think we may be better friends,” she 
responded, smiling faintly, yet with 
sudden good humor. “We are beginning 
to know — one another.” 

“And ourselves,” almost under his 
breath. Then, “Miss Joan, will you ever 
forgive me? I shall never err again in 
that direction,” he pleaded. “I am 
humiliated in my own eyes until you tell 
me it is forgotten.” 

She nodded, and this time with her own 
frank smile. 

Then she turned away and did leave 
the room, this time taking Roy with her. 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 175 

Her joyous laughter and his wild, excited 
barking proclaimed through the length 
and breadth of Blore that he was enjoy- 
ing the rare indulgence of a good romp 
on the back lawn. It was Roy’s day. 

And can a dog ever hope for a better 
day than that upon which his mistress 
becomes aware that she is also another’s 
mistress: becomes aware that another is 
thinking of her and for her, nay, that she 
is the very center of that other’s thoughts? 
What a charming, pleasantly bewildering 
discovery it is, this learning that for him 
when she is in the room it is full, and 
wanting her it is empty, be it never so 
crowded ; that all beside, though they be 
witty or famous, or what they will, or can 
or would, are but lay figures, umbra, 
shadow guests in his estimation. She 
learns with strange thrills, that in moments 
of meditation will flash to eye and cheek, 
that her slightest glance and every change 
of color, every tone and smile, are marked 
with jealous care ; that pleasure which she 
does not share is tasteless, and a dinner 
of herbs, if she be but at a far corner, is a 
feast for princes. That is her dog’s day, 
or it may be his dog’s day. It is a pleas- 


176 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

ant discovery for a man, mutatis mutan- 
dis ; but for a girl, a sweet, half fearful 
consciousness, the brightest part of love’s 
young dream — even when the kindred 
soul is of another world, and an abyss, 
wide, impassable, unbridgeable lies be- 
tween. 

But these things come to sudden ends 
sometimes. Sprains, however severe, 
have an awkward knack of getting well. 
Swellings subside from inanition, and 
doctors insist for their credit’s sake that 
the stick or ready arm be relinquished. 
Certainly a respite or a relapse — call it 
which you will — is not impossible with 
care, but it is brief. A singular shooting 
pain, not easily located with exactness, 
but somewhere in the neighborhood of 
the calf, has been found useful; and a 
strange rigidity of the tendon Achilles in 
certain positions may gain a day or two. 
But at last not even these will avail, and 
the doubly injured one must out and 
away from among the rose leaves. Twice 
Maitland fixed his departure for the fol- 
lowing morning, and each time when 
pressed to stay gave way, after so feeble, 
so ludicrous a resistance, if it deserved 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 177 

the name, that Agnes scarcely concealed 
her grimace, and Joan looked another 
way. She did not add anything to the 
others’ hospitable entreaties. If she 
guessed what made Maggie’s good-night 
kiss so fervent and clinging, she made no 
sign and offered no opening. 

In the garden next morning, Maitland 
taxed her with her neutrality. It was 
wonderful how his sense of humor had 
become developed at Blore. 

“I thought that you did not need so 
much pressure as to necessitate more than 
four people’s powers of persuasion being 
used,” she answered, in the same playful 
spirit. “And besides, now you are well 
enough, must you not leave?” 

“Indeed, Miss Joan?” 

“And go back to your own way of life? 
It is a month since you saw the latest 
telegrams, and there is a French company 
at the Gaiety, I learn from the Standard. 
We have interests and duties, though you 
were so hard of belief about them, at 
Blore, but you have none.” 

“No interests?” 

She shook her head. “No duties, at 
any rate.” 


178 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 


“And so you think,” he asked, his eyes 
fixed upon her changing features, “that I 
should go back to my old way of life — of 
a century ago?” 

“Of course you must !” But she was 
not so rude as to tell him what a very 
foolish question this was. Still it was, 
was it not? 

“So I will, or to something like it, and 
yet very unlike. But not alone. Joan, 
will you come with me? If I have known 
you but a month, I have learned to love 
your truth and goodness and you, Joan, 
so that if I go away alone, to return to 
the old life would be bitterly impossible. 
You have spoiled that; you must make 
for me a fresh life in its place. Do you 
remember you told me that when we 
knew one another we might be better 
friends? I have come to know you 
better, but we cannot be friends. We 
must be something more, more even than 
lovers, Joan — husband and wife, if you 
can like me enough.” 

It was not an unmanly way of putting 
it, and he was in earnest. But so quiet, 
so self-restrained was his manner that 
it savored of coldness. The girl whose 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 179 

hand he held while he spoke had no such 
thought. Her face was turned from him. 
She was gazing over the wall across the 
paddock where Maggie’s mare was peace- 
ably and audibly feeding, and so at the 
Blore Ash on its mimic hill, every bough 
and drooping branchlet dark against the 
sunset sky; and this radiant in her eyes 
with a beauty its deepest glow had never 
held for her before. The sweetest joy 
was in her heart, and grief in her face. 
He had been worthy of himself and her 
love. While he spoke she told herself, 
not that some time she might love him, 
but that she had given him all her true 
heart already. And yet as he was 
worthy, so she must be worthy and do 
her part. 

“You have done me a great honor,” she 
said at last, drawing away her hand from 
his grasp, though she did not turn her 
face, “but it cannot be, Mr. Maitland. I 
am very grateful to you — I am indeed, 
and sorry.” 

“Why can it not be?” he said shortly; 
startled, I am bound to say, and mortified. 

“Because of— of many things. One is 
that I should not make you happy, nor 


180 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

you me. I am not suited to your way of 
life. I am of the country, and I love to 
be free and unconstrained, while you are 
of the town. Oh, we should not get 
on at all ! Perhaps you would not be 
ashamed of me as your wife, but you 
might be, and I could not endure the 
chance even of it. There," she added, 
with a laugh in which a woman’s ear 
might have detected the suppression of a 
sob, “is one sober reason where none can 
be needed.” 

“Is that your only reason?” 

She was picking the mortar out of the 
wall. “Oh, dear me, no! I have a hun- 
dred, but that is a sufficient one,” she an- 
swered almost carelessly, flirting a scrap 
of lime from the wall with her forefinger. 

“And you have been playing with me 
all this time!” cried he, obtusely enraged 
by her flippancy. 

“Not knowingly, not knowingly, 
indeed !” 

“Can you tell me that you were not 
aware that I loved you?” 

“Well, I thought — the fact is, I thought 
that you were amusing yourself — in West 
End fashion.” 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 


181 


“Coquette ! M 

“Mr. Maitland!” she cried vehemently, 
“how dare you? There is proof, if any 
were needed, that I am right. You would 
not have dared to say that to any of your 
town acquaintances. I am no coquette. 
If I have given you pain, I am very sorry. 
And — I beg that we may part friends.” 

She had begun fiercely, with all her old 
spirit. He turned away, and she ended 
with a sudden, anxious, pitiful lameness, 
that yet, so angry and dull of under- 
standing was he, taught him nothing. 

“Friends!” he cried impatiently. “I 
told you that it was impossible. Oh, 
Joan, think again! Have I been too 
hasty? Have I given you no time to 
weigh it? Have I just offended you in 
some little thing? Then let me come to 
you again in three months, after I have 
been back among my old friends?” 

“No, don’t do that, Mr. Maitland. It 
will be of no use and will but give us 
pain.” 

“And yet I will come,” he replied 
firmly, endeavoring by the very eager 
longing of his own gaze to draw from her 
fair, downcast face some sign of hope. “I 


1 82 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 


will come, if you forbid me a hundred 
times. And if you have been playing 
with me — true, I am in no mood for soft 
words now — it shall be your punishment 
to say me nay, again. I shall be here, 
Joan, to ask you in three months from 
to-day.” 

“I cannot prevent you,” she said. 
“Believe me, I shall only have the same 
answer for you.” 

“I shall come,” he said doggedly, and 
looked at her with eyes reluctant to quit 
her drooping lashes lest they should miss 
some glance bidding his heart take cour- 
age. But none came, only the color flut- 
tered uncertainly in her face. So he 
slowly turned away from her at last and 
walked across the garden, and out of sight 
by the gate into the road. He saw noth- 
ing of the long, dusty track, and straggling 
hedges bathed in the last glows of sunset. 
Those big gray eyes, so frank and true, 
came again and again between him and 
the prospect, and blinded his own with a 
hot mist of sorrow and anger. Ah, Blore, 
thou wast mightily avenged ! 

It is a hot afternoon in August, laden 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 183 

with the hum of dozing life. The sun 
has driven the less energetic members of 
the Quaritch family into the cool gloom of 
the drawing room, where the open win- 
dows are shaded by the great cedar. 
Mrs. Quaritch, upon the sofa, is nodding 
over a book. Joan, in a low wicker seat, 
may be doing the same; while Agnes, 
pursuing a favorite employment upon the 
hearthrug, is now and again betrayed by 
a half stifled growl from one or other of 
the dogs as they rise and turn themselves 
reproachfully, and flop down again with a 
sigh in a cool place. 

“Agnes,” cries her mother, upon some 
more distinct demonstration of misery 
being made, “for goodness’ sake leave the 
dogs alone. They have not had a mo- 
ment’s peace since lunch.” 

“A dog’s life isn’t peace, mamma,” she 
answers, with the simple air of a discoverer 
of truth. But, nevertheless, she looks 
about for fresh worlds to conquer. 

“Even Mr. Maitland was better than 
this,” she announces, after a long yawn of 
discontent, “though he was dull enough. 
I wonder why he did not come in July. 
Do you know, Joan?” 


1 84 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 


“Oh, Agnes, do let us have a moment’s 
peace for once ! We are not dogs,” cried 
Joan fretfully. 

Wonder! she was always wondering. 
This very minute, while her eyes were on 
the page, it was in her mind. Through 
all those three months passing hour by 
hour and day by day, she could assure 
herself that when he had come and gone, 
she would be at rest again; things would 
be as before with her. Let him come and 
go! But when July arrived, and he did 
not, a sharper pain made itself felt. 
Bravely as she strove to beat it down, 
well as she might hide it from others, the 
certainty that it had needed no second 
repulse to balk his love sorely hurt her 
pride. Just her pride, she told herself; 
nothing else. That he had not stood the 
test he had himself proposed ; that any 
unacknowledged faintest hope she might 
have cherished, deep down in her heart, 
that he might master her by noble persist- 
ence, must now be utterly quenched ; 
these things, of course had no bitterness 
for her through the hot August days; 
had nothing to do with the wearied look 
that sometimes dulled the gray eyes, nor 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 185 

with the sudden indifference or as sudden 
enthusiasms for lawn tennis and dogs and 
pigeons, that marked her daily moods. 

Agnes’ teasing, by putting her medita- 
tions into words, has disturbed her. She 
gets up and moves restlessly about, touch- 
ing this thing and that, and at last leaves 
the room and stands in the hall, thinking. 
Here, too, it is dark and cool, and made 
to seem more so — the door into the garden 
being open — by the hot glare of sunshine 
falling upon the spotless doorstep. She 
glances at this listlessly. The house is 
still, the servants are at the back; the 
dogs all worn out by the heat. Then, as 
she hesitates, a slight crunching of foot- 
steps upon the gravel comes to her ear, 
breaking the silence. A sudden black 
shadow falls upon the sunny step and tells 
of a visitor. Someone chases away his 
shadow, and steps upon the stone, and 
raises his gloved hand to the bell. 
Charles Maitland at last ! 

Coming straight in from the sunshine 
he cannot see the swift welcome that 
springs to eye and cheek, a flash of light 
and color, quick to come and go. He is 
too much moved himself to mark how her 


1 86 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

hand shakes. He sees no difference in 
her. But she sees a change in him. She 
detects some subtle difference that eludes 
her attempt to define its nature and only 
fills her with a vague sense that this is 
not the Charles Maitland from whom she 
parted. 

It is a meeting she has pictured often, 
but not at all like this. He signs to her 
to take him into the dining room, the 
door of which stands open. 

"I have come back, Miss Joan.” 

“Yes?” she answers, sitting down with 
an attempt to still the tumult within, with 
such success that she brings herself for 
the moment nearly to the frame of mind 
in which they parted, and there is the 
same weary sufferance in her tone. 

“I have come back as I said I would. 
I have overstepped the three months, but 
I had a good reason for my delay. In- 
deed I have been in doubt whether I 
ought to see you again at all, only I could 
not bear you to think what you naturally 
would. I felt that I must see you, even 
if it cost us both pain.” There is a new 
awkwardness in his tone and pose. 

"I told you that it was — quite unneces-. 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE . 187 


sary — and useless,” she answers, with a 
strange tightening in her throat. 

“Then it can do you no harm,” he 
assents quietly. “I have come back not 
to repeat my petition, but to tell you why 
I do not and cannot.” 

“I think,” she puts in coldly, “that 
upon the whole you had better spare 
yourself the unpleasantness of explaining 
anything to me. Don’t you think so? I 
asked you for no proof, and held out no 
hope. Why do you trouble me? Why 
have you come back?” 

“You have not changed!” 

For the first time a ring of contempt 
in her voice takes the place of cold in- 
difference. “I do not change in three 
months, Mr. Maitland. But there! my 
mother will wish to see you, and so will 
Agnes, who is hankering after something to 
happen. They are in the drawing room.” 

“But, Miss Joan, grant me one moment ! 
You have not heard my reasons.” 

“Your reasons! Is it absolutely neces- 
sary?” she asks, half fretfully, half scorn- 
fully ; her uppermost thought an intense 
desire to be by herself in her own room, 
with the door safely locked. 


1 88 A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

“I think so, at any rate. Why, I see! 
By Jove! of course you must be thinking 
the worst of me now! Oh, no! if you 
could not love me, Joan ; — pray pardon 
me, I had no right to call you by your 
name — you need not despise me. I can- 
not again ask you to be my wife, be- 
cause,” he laughs uneasily, “fortune has 
put it out of my power to take a wife. 
My trustee has made ducks and drakes 
of my property, or rather bulls and bears. 
I have but a trifle left to begin the 
world upon, and far too little to marry 
upon.” 

“I read of it in the papers. I saw that 
a Mr. Maitland was the chief sufferer, but 
I did not connect him with you,” she says, 
in a low voice. 

“No, of course not. How should you ?” 
he answers lightly. But nevertheless her 
coldness is dreadful to him. He had 
thought she would express some sym- 
pathy. And gayly as he talks of it, he 
feels something of the importance of a 
ruined man and something of his claim to 
pity. 

“And what are you going to do?” 

“Do? We’ve arranged all that. They 


A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 189 

say there is a living to be made at the 
Bar in New Zealand, if one does not 
object to riding boots and spurs as part 
of the professional costume. Of course it 
will be a different sort of life, and Agnes’ 
favorite patent leathers will be left behind 
in every sense. This would have been a 
bad blow to me” — there is a slight catch 
in his voice, and he gets up, and looks 
out of one of the windows with his back 
to her — “now I have learned from you 
that life should not be all lounging round 
the table and looking over other people’s 
cards. It has been a sharp lesson, but 
very opportune as things have turned out. 
I am ready to take a hand myself now — 
even without a partner.” 

He does not at once turn round. He 
had not fancied she would take it like 
this, and he listens for a word to tell him 
that at any rate she is sorry — is grieved 
as for a stranger. Then he feels a sudden 
light, timid touch upon his arm. Joan is 
standing quite close to him, and does 
not move or take away her hand as he 
turns. Only she looks down at the floor 
when she speaks : 

“I think I should be better than— than 


19° A BLORE MANOR EPISODE. 

dummy — if you will take me to New 
Zealand.” 

Half laughing, half crying, and wholly 
confused, she looks up into his astonished 
face with eyes so brimful of love and ten- 
derness that they tell all her story. For 
just an instant his eyes meet hers. Then, 
with a smothered exclamation, he draws 
her to him — and — in fact smothers the 
exclamation. 

“I am so glad you’ve lost your money,” 
she sobs, hiding her face, as soon as she 
can, upon his shoulder. “I should not 
have done at all — for you — in London, 
Charley.” 

There let us leave her. But no, another 
is less merciful. Neither of them hears 
the door open or sees Agnes* face appear 
at it. But she both sees and hears, and 
says very distinctly and clearly : 

“Well!” 

But even Agnes is happy and satisfied. 
Something has happened. 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


HAVE friends who tell me that 
they seldom walk the streets of 
London without wondering what 
is passing behind the house-fronts ; with- 
out picturing a comedy here, a love-scene 
there, and behind the dingy cane blinds 
a something ill-defined, a something odd 
and bizarre . They experience — if you 

believe them — a sense of loneliness out 
in the street, an impatience of the same- 
ness of all these many houses, their dull 
bricks and discreet windows, and a long- 
ing that someone would step out and 
ask them to enter and see the play. 

Well, I have never felt any of these 
things ; but as I was passing through 
Fitzhardinge Square about half-past ten 
o’clock one evening in last July, after 
dining, if I remember rightly, in Baker 
Street, something happened to me which 



1 92 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


I fancy may be of interest to such 
people. 

I was passing through the square from 
north to south, and to avoid a small 
crowd, which some reception had drawn 
together, I left the pavement and struck 
across the road to the path around the 
oval garden ; which, by the way, contains 
a few of the finest trees in London. This 
part was in deep shadow, so that when I 
presently emerged from it and recrossed 
the road to the pavement near the top of 
Fitzhardinge Street, I had an advantage 
over any persons on the pavement. They 
were under the lamps, while I, coming 
from beneath the trees, was almost in- 
visible. 

The door of the house immediately in 
front of me as I crossed was open, and an 
elderly man servant out of livery was 
standing at it, looking up and down the 
pavement by turns. It was his air of 
furtive anxiety that drew my attention to 
him. He was not like a man looking for 
a cab, or waiting for his sweetheart ; and 
I had my eye upon him as I stepped 
upon the pavement before him. But my 
surprise was great when he uttered a low 


THE FATAL LETTER. 193 

exclamation of dismay at sight of me, 
and made as if he would escape ; while 
his face, in the full glare of the light, 
grew so pale and terror-stricken that he 
might before have been completely at 
his ease. I was astonished and instinct- 
ively stood still returning his gaze ; for 
perhaps twenty seconds we remained so, 
he speechless, and his hands fallen by his 
side. Then, before I could move on, as 
I was in the act of doing, he cried, “ Oh, 
Mr. George ! Oh ! Mr. George ! ” in a 
tone that rang out in the stillness rather 
as a wail than an ordinary cry. 

My name, my surname, I mean, is 
George. For a moment I took the ad- 
dress to myself, forgetting that the man 
was a stranger, and my heart began to 
beat more quickly with fear of what might 
have happened. “ What is it ? I ex- 
claimed. “What is it?” and I shook 
back from the lower part of my face the 
silk muffler I was wearing. The evening 
was close, but I had been suffering from 
a sore throat. 

He came nearer and peered more 
closely at me, and I dismissed my fear ; 
for I thought that I could see the discov- 


194 THE FATAL LETTER. 

ery of his mistake dawning upon him. 
His pallid face, on which the pallor was 
the more noticeable as his plump features 
were those of a man with whom the world 
as a rule went well, regained some of its 
lost color, and a sigh of relief passed his 
lips. But this feeling was only momen- 
tary. The joy of escape from whatever 
blow he had thought imminent gave place 
at once to his previous state of miserable 
expectancy of something or other. 

“You took me for another person,” I 
said, preparing to pass on. At that mo- 
ment I could have sworn — I would have 
given one hundred to one twice over — 
that he was going to say yes. To my in- 
tense astonishment, he did not. With a 
very visible effort he said, “ No.” 

“ Eh ! What ? ” I exclaimed. I had 
taken a step or two. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Then what is it ? ” I said. “ What do 
you want, my good fellow ? ” 

Watching his shuffling, indeterminate 
manner, I wondered if he were sane. His 
next answer reassured me on that point. 
There was an almost desperate delibera- 
tion about its manner. “ My master 


THE FATAL LETTER. 195 

wishes to see you, sir, if you will kindly 
walk in for five minutes/’ was what he 
said. 

I should have replied, “ Who is your 
master?” if I had been wise; or cried, 
“ Nonsense ! ” and gone my way. But 
the mind, when it is spurred by a sud- 
den emergency, often overruns the more 
obvious course to adopt a worse. It was 
possible that one of my intimates had 
taken the house, and said in his butler’s 
presence that he wished to see me. Think- 
ing of that I answered, “Are you sure of 
this ? Have you not made a mistake, my 
man ? ” 

With an obstinate sullenness that was 
new in him, he said, No he had not. 
Would I please to walk in ? He stepped 
briskly forward as he spake, and induced 
me by a kind of gentle urgency to enter 
the house, taking from me, with the ease 
of a trained servant, my hat, coat, and 
muffler. Finding himself in the course of 
his duties he gained more composure ; 
while I, being thus treated, lost my sense 
of the strangeness of the proceeding, and 
only awoke to a full consciousness of my 
position when he had softly shut the door 


196 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


behind us and was in the act of putting 
up the chain. 

Then I confess I looked round, a little 
alarmed at my precipitancy. But I found 
the hall spacious, lofty, and dark-paneled, 
the ordinary hall of an old London house. 
The big fireplace was filled with plants in 
flower. There were rugs on the floor and 
a number of chairs with painted crests on 
the backs, and in a corner was an old 
sedan chair, its poles upright against the 
wall. 

No other servants were visible, it is 
true. But apart from this all was in 
order, all was quiet, and any idea of vio- 
lence was manifestly absurd. 

At the same time the affair seemed of 
the strangest. Why should the butler in 
charge of a well-arranged and handsome 
house — the house of an ordinary wealthy 
gentleman — why should he loiter about 
the open doorway as if anxious to feel the 
presence of his kind? Why should he 
show such nervous excitement and terror 
as I had witnessed ? Why should he 
introduce a stranger? 

I had reached this point when he led 
the way upstairs. The staircase was 


THE FATAL LETTER . 197 

wide, the steps were low and broad. On 
either side at the head of the flight stood 
a beautiful Venus of white Parian marble. 
They were not common reproductions, 
and I paused. I could see beyond them 
a Hercules and a Meleager of bronze, 
and delicately tinted draperies and otto- 
mans that under the light of a silver 
hanging lamp — a gem from Malta — 
changed a mere lobby to a fairies’ nook. 
The sight filled me with a certain sus- 
picion ; which was dispelled, however, 
when my hand rested for an instant upon 
the reddish pedestal that supported one 
of the statues. The cold touch of the 
marble was enough for me. The pillars 
were not of composite ; of which they 
certainly would have consisted in a gam- 
ing house, or worse. 

Three steps carried me across the 
lobby to a curtained doorway by which 
the servant was waiting. I saw that the 
“shakes” were upon him again. His 
impatience was so ill concealed that I 
was not surprised — though I was taken 
aback — when he dropped the mask alto- 
gether, and as I passed him — it being 
now too late for me to retreat undis- 


198 THE FATAL LETTER. 

covered, if the room were occupied — laid 
a trembling hand upon my arm and 
thrust his face close to mine. “Ask how 
he is ! Say anything,” he whispered, 
trembling, “ no matter what, sir ! Only, 
for the love of Heaven, stay five 
minutes ! ” 

He gave me a gentle push forward as 
he spoke — pleasant, all this ! — and an- 
nounced in a loud, quavering voice, “ Mr. 
George ! ” which was true enough. I 
found myself walking round a screen at 
the same time that something in the 
room, a long, dimly lighted room, fell 
with a brisk, rattling sound, and there was 
the scuffling noise of a person, still hidden 
from me by the screen, rising to his feet 
in haste. 

Next moment I was face to face with 
two men. One, a handsome elderly gen- 
tleman, who wore gray mustaches and 
would have seemed in place at a service 
club, was still in his chair, regarding me 
with a perfectly calm, unmoved face, as 
if my entrance at that hour were the 
commonest incident of his life. The 
other had risen and stood looking at me 
askance. He was five-and-twenty years 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


199 


younger than his companion and as good- 
looking in a different way. But now his 
face was white and drawn, distorted by 
the same expression of terror — ay, and 
a darker and fiercer terror than that which 
I had already seen upon the servant’s 
features ; it was the face of one in a 
desperate strait. He looked as a man 
looks who has put all he has in the world 
upon an outsider — and done it twice. In 
that quiet drawing room by the side of 
his placid companion, with nothing what- 
ever in their surroundings to account 
for his emotion, his panic-stricken face 
shocked me inexpressibly. 

They were in evening dress ; and be- 
tween them was a chess table, its men 
in disorder: almost touching this was 
another small table bearing a tray of 
Apollinaris water and spirits. On this 
the young man was resting one hand as 
if, but for its support, he would have 
fallen. 

To add one more fact, I had never 
seen either of them in my life. 

Or wait; could that be true? If so, 
it must indeed have been a nightmare I 
was suffering. For the elder man broke 


200 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


the silence by addressing me in a quiet, 
ordinary tone that exactly matched his 
face. “ Sit down, George,” he said, 
“ don’t stand there. I did not expect 
you this evening.” He held out his 
hand, without rising from his chair, and 
I advanced and shook it in silence. “ I 
thought you were in Liverpool. How 
are you ? ” he continued. 

“ Very well, I thank you,” I muttered 
mechanically. 

“ Not very well, I should say,” he 
retorted. “ You are as hoarse as a raven. 
You have a bad cold at best. It is 
nothing worse, my boy, is it ? ” with 
anxiety. 

“ No, a throat cough ; nothing else,” I 
murmured, resigning myself to this as- 
tonishing reception — this evident concern 
for my welfare on the part of a man 
whom I had never seen in my life. 

“ That is well ! ” he answered cheerily. 
Not only did my presence cause him no 
surprise. It gave him, without doubt, 
actual pleasure ! 

It was otherwise with his companion ; 
grimly and painfully so indeed. He had 
made no advances to me, spoken no word, 


THE FATAL LETTER . 


201 


scarcely altered his position. His eyes 
he had never taken from me. Yet in 
him there was a change. He had dis- 
covered, exactly as had the butler before 
him, his mistake. The sickly terror was 
gone from his face, and a half-frightened 
malevolence, not much more pleasant to 
witness, had taken its place. Why this 
did not break out in any active form was 
part of the general mystery given to me 
to solve. I could only surmise from 
glances which he later cast from time 
to time toward the door, and from the 
occasional faint creaking of a board 
in that direction, that his self-restraint 
had to do with my friend the butler. 
The inconsequences of dreamland ran 
through it all : why the elder man re- 
mained in error ; why the younger with 
that passion on his face was tongue-tied ; 
why the great house was so still ; why 
the servant should have mixed me up 
with this business at all — these were 
questions as unanswerable, one as the 
other. 

And the fog in my mind grew denser 
when the old gentleman turned from me 
as if my presence were a usual thing, and 


202 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


rapped the table before him impatiently. 
“ Now, Gerald ! ” cried he, in sharp tones, 
“ have you put those pieces back ? Good 
Heavens ! I am glad that I have not 
nerves like yours ! Don’t you remember 
the squares, boy? Here, give them to 
me ! ” With a hasty gesture of his hand, 
something like a mesmeric pass over the 
board, he set down the half dozen pieces 
with a rapid tap ! tap ! tap ! which made 
it abundantly clear that he, at any rate, 
had no doubt of their former positions. 

“ You will not mind sitting by until we 
have finished the game ? ” he continued, 
speaking to me, and in a voice I fancied 
more genial than that which he had used 
to Gerald. “You are anxious to talk to 
me about your letter, George ? ” he went 
on when I did not answer. “ The fact 
is that I have not read the inclosure. 
Barnes, as usual, read the outer letter to 
me, in which you said the matter was pri- 
vate and of grave importance ; and I in- 
tended to go to Laura to-morrow, as 
you suggested, and get her to read the 
news to me. Now you have returned 
so soon, I am glad that I did not trouble 
her.” 


THE FATAL LETTER. 203 

“ Just so, sir,” I said, listening with all 
my ears ; and wondering. 

“Well, I hope there is nothing very bad 
the matter, my boy ? ” he replied. “ How- 
ever — Gerald ! it is your move ! ten 
minutes more of such play as your 
brother’s, and I shall be at your service.” 

Gerald made a hurried move. The 
piece rattled- upon the board as if he had 
been playing the castanets. His father 
made him take it back. I sat watching 
the two in wonder and silence. What did 
it all mean? Why should Barnes — doubt- 
less behind the screen, listening — read the 
outer letter ? Why must Laura be em- 
ployed to read the inner? Why could 
not this cultivated and refined gentleman 

before me read his Ah ! that much 

was disclosed to me. A mere turn of 
the hand did it. He had made another 
of those passes over the board, and I 
learned from it what an ordinary examina- 
tion would not have detected. He, the 
old soldier with the placid face £nd light- 
blue eyes, was blind ! Quite blind ! 

I began to see more clearly now, and 
from this moment I took up, at any rate 
in my own mind, a different position. 


204 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


Possibly the servant who had impelled 
me into the middle of this had had his 
own good reasons for doing so, as I now 
began to discern. But with a clew to the 
labyrinth in my hand, I could no longer 
move passively at any other’s impulse. 
I must act for myself. For a while I sat 
still and made no sign. My suspicions 
were presently confirmed. The elder 
man more than once scolded his oppo- 
nent for playing slowly. In one of these 
intervals he took from an inside pocket 
of his dress waistcoat a small package. 

“You had better take your letter, 
George,” he said. “If there are, as you 
mentioned, originals in it, they will be 
more safe with you than with me. You 
can tell me all about it, viva voce , now 
you are here. Gerald will leave us alone 
presently.” 

He held the papers toward me. To 
take them would be to take an active 
part in the imposture, and I hesitated, 
my own hand half outstretched. But my 
eyes fell at the critical instant upon 
Master Gerald’s face, and my scruples 
took themselves off. He was eying the 
packet with an intense greed and a trem- 


THE FATAL LETTER . 205 

bling longing — a very itching of the 
fingers and toes to fall upon the prey — 
that put an end to my doubts. I rose 
and took the papers. With a quiet, but 
I think significant look in his direction, 
I placed them in the breast pocket of my 
evening coat. I had no safer receptacle 
about me, or into that they would have 
gone. 

“ Very well, sir,” I said, “ there is no 
particular hurry. I think the matter will 
keep, as things now are, until to-morrow.” 

“ To be sure. You ought not to be 
out with such a cold at night, my boy,” 
he answered. “ You will find a decanter 
of the Scotch whisky you gave me last 
Christmas on the tray. Will you have 
some with hot water and a lemon, 
George ? The servants are all at the 
theater — Gerald begged a holiday for 
them — but Barnes will get you the things 
in a minute.” 

“Thank you; I won’t trouble him. I 
will take some with cold water,” I replied, 
thinking I should gain in this way what 
I wanted — time to think ; five minutes to 
myself while they played. 

But I was out of my reckoning. “ I 


206 


THE FATAL LETTER . 


will have mine now, too,” he said. “ Will 
you mix jt, Gerald? ” 

Gerald jumped up to do it, with tolera- 
ble alacrity. I sat still, preferring to help 
myself when he should have attended to 
his father, if his father it was. I felt 
more easy now that I had those papers 
in my pocket. The more I thought of it 
the more certain I became that they were 
the object aimed at by whatever deviltry 
was on foot, and that possession of them 
gave me the whip hand. My young 
gentleman might snarl and show his 
teeth, but the prize had escaped him. 

Perhaps I was a little too confident, a 
little too contemptuous of my opponent ; 
a little too proud of the firmness with 
which I had taken at one and the same 
time the responsibility and the post of 
vantage. A creak of the board behind 
the screen roused me from my thoughts. 
It fell upon my ear trumpet-tongued, a 
sudden note of warning. I glanced up 
with a start and a conviction that I was 
being caught napping, and looked in- 
stinctively toward the young man. He 
was busy at the tray, his back to me. 
Relieved of my fear of I did not know 


THE FATAL LETTER . 207 

what, — perhaps a desperate attack upon 
my pocket, — I was removing my eyes, 
when, in doing so, I caught sight of his 
reflection in a small mirror beyond him. 
Ah! 

What was he busy about? Nothing. 
Absolutely nothing, at the moment. He 
was standing motionless, — I could fancy 
him breathless also, — a strange, listening 
expression on his face, which seemed to 
me to have faded to a grayish tinge. His 
left hand was clasping a half-filled tumbler, 
the other was at his waistcoat pocket. So 
he stood during perhaps a second or two, 
a small lamp upon the tray before him 
illumining his handsome figure ; and thefi 
his eyes, glancing up, met the reflection 
of mine in the mirror. Swiftly as the 
thought itself could pass from brain to 
limb, the hand which had been resting in 
the pocket flashed with a clatter among 
the glasses ; and, turning almost as 
quickly, he brought one of the latter to 
the chess table, and set it down un- 
steadily. 

What had I seen? Nothing, actually 
nothing. Just what Gerald had been 
doing. Yet my heart was going as many 


208 


THE FATAL LETTER . 


strokes to the minute as a losing crew. I 
rose abruptly. 

“ Wait a moment, sir,” I said, as the 
elder man laid his hand upon the glass. 
“ I don’t think that Gerald has mixed this 
quite as you like it.” 

He had already lifted it to his lips. I 
looked from him to Gerald. That young 
gentleman’s color, though he faced me 
hardily, shifted more than once, and he 
seemed to be swallowing a succession of 
oversized fives balls ; but his eyes met 
mine in a vicious kind of smile that was 
not without its gleam of triumph. I was 
persuaded that all was right even before 
his father said so. 

“ Perhaps you have mixed for me, Ger- 
ald ? ” I suggested pleasantly. 

“No!” he answered in sullen defiance. 
He filled a glass with something — perhaps 
it was water — and drank it, his back to- 
ward me. He had not spoken so much 
as a single word to me before. 

The blind man’s ear recognized the 
tone now. “ I wish you boys would agree 
better,” he said wearily. “ Gerald, go to 
bed. I would as soon play chess with an 
idiot from Earlswood. Generally you can 


THE FATAL LETTER. 209 

play the game, if you are good for nothing 
else ; but since your brother came in, you 
have not made a move which anyone not 
an imbecile would make. Go to bed, boy ! 
go to bed ! ” 

I had stepped to the table while he was 
speaking. One of the glasses was full. I 
lifted it, with seeming unconcern, to my 
nose. There was whisky in it as well as 
water. Then had Gerald mixed for me? 
At any rate, I put the tumbler aside, and 
helped myself afresh. When I set the 
glass down empty, my mind was made up. 

“ Gerald does not seem inclined to 
move, sir, so I will,” I said quietly. “ I 
will call in the morning and discuss that 
matter, if it will suit you. But to-night I 
feel inclined to get to bed early.” 

“Quite right, my boy. I would ask 
you to take a bed here instead of turning 
out, but I suppose that Laura will be 
expecting you. Come in any time to- 
morrow morning. Shall Barnes call arcab 
for you?” 

“ I think I will walk,” I answered, shak- 
ing the proffered hand. “ By the way, 
sir,” I added, “ have you heard who is the 
new Home Secretary?” 


210 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


“ Yes, Henry Matthews,” he replied. 
“ Gerald told me. He had heard it at the 
club.” 

“ It is to be hoped that he will have no 
womanish scruples about capital punish- 
ment,” I said, as if I were incidentally 
considering the appointment. And with 
that last shot at Mr. Gerald — he turned 
green, I thought, a color which does not 
go well with a black mustache — I walked 
out of the room, so peaceful, so cozy, so 
softly lighted as it looked, I remember, 
and downstairs. I hoped that I had 
paralyzed the young fellow, and might 
leave the house without molestation. 

But, as I gained the foot of the stairs, 
he tapped me on the shoulder. I saw, 
then, looking at him, that I had mistaken 
my man. Every trace of the sullen defi- 
ance which had marked his manner 
throughout the interview upstairs was 
gone. His face was still pale, but it wore 
a gentle smile as we confronted one an- 
other under the hall lamp. “ I have not 
the pleasure of knowing you, but let me 
thank you for your help,” he said in a low 
voice, yet with a kind of frank spontane- 
ity. “ Barnes’ idea of bringing you in 








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4 


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‘ ‘ YOU ARE FORGETTING THE PAPERS,” HE 
REMINDED ME. 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


2 1 1 


was a splendid one, and I am immensely 
obliged to you.” 

“ Don’t mention it,” I answered stiffly, 
proceeding with my preparations for 
going out as if he had not been there, 
although I must confess that this com- 
plete change in him exercised my mind 
no little. 

“ I feel so sure that we may rely upon 
your discretion,” he went on, ignoring 
my tone, “ that I need say nothing about 
that. Of course, we owe you an explana- 
tion, but as your cold is really yours and 
not my brother’s, you will not mind if 
I read you the riddle to-morrow instead 
of keeping you from your bed to-night?” 

“ It will do equally well ; indeed bet- 
ter,” I said, putting on my overcoat and 
buttoning it carefully across my chest, 
while I affected to be looking with 
curiosity at the sedan chair. 

He pointed lightly to the place where 
the packet lay. “ You are forgetting the 
papers,” he reminded me. His tone al- 
most compelled the answer : “To be sure.” 

But I had pretty well made up my 
mind, and I answered instead : “ Not at 
all. They are quite safe, thank you.” 


212 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


'* But you don’t I beg your 

pardon,” he said, opening his eyes very 
wide, as if some new light were beginning 
to shine upon his mind and he could 
scarcely believe its revelations. “ You 
don’t really mean that you are going to 
take those papers away with you ? ” 

“ Certainly ! ” 

“My dear sir!” he remonstrated 
earnestly. “ This is preposterous. Pray 
forgive me the reminder, but those 
papers, as my father gave you to under- 
stand, are private papers, which he sup- 
posed himself to be handing to my 
brother George.” 

“Just so,” was all I said. And I took 
a step toward the door. 

“You really mean to take them ?” he 
asked seriously. 

“I do ; unless you can satisfactorily 
explain the part I have played this 
evening, and also make it clear to me 
that you have a right to the possession of 
the papers.” 

“Confound it! If I must do so to- 
night, I must!” he said reluctantly. “I 
trust to your honor, sir, to keep the ex- 
planation secret.” I bowed, and he re- 


THE FATAL LETTER . 


213 


sumed : “ My elder brother and I are in 
business together. Lately we have had 
losses which have crippled us so severely 
that we decided to disclose them to Sir 
Charles and ask his help. George did so 
yesterday by letter, giving certain notes 
of our liabilities. You ask why he did 
not make such a statement by word of 
mouth ? Because he had to go to Liver- 
pool at a moment’s notice to make a last 
effort to arrange the matter. And as for 
me,” with a curious grimace, “ my father 
would as soon discuss business with his 
dog! Sooner!” 

“ Well ? ” I said. He had paused, and 
was absently flicking the blossoms off the 
geraniums in the fireplace with his pocket 
handkerchief, looking moodily at his work 
the while. I cannot remember noticing 
the handkerchief, yet I seem to be able 
to see it now. It had a red border, and 
was heavily scented with white rose. 
“Wall?” 

“ Well,” he continued, with a visible 
effort, “ my father has been ailing lately, 
and this morning his usual doctor made 
him see Bristowe. He is an authority on 
heart disease, as you doubtless know; 


214 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


and his opinion is/’ he added, in a lower 
voice and with some emotion, “ that even 
a slight shock may prove fatal.” 

I began to feel hot and uncomfortable. 
What was I to think ? The packet was 
becoming as lead in my pocket. 

“ Of course,” he resumed more briskly, 
“ that threw our difficulties into the shade 
at once ; and my first impulse was to get 
these papers from him. Don’t you see 
that ? All day I have been trying in vain 
to effect it. I took Barnes, who is an old 
servant, partially into my confidence, but 
we could think of no plan. My father, 
like many people who have lost their 
sight, is jealous, and I was at my wits’ 
end, when Barnes brought you up. Your 
likeness,” he added in a parenthesis, look- 
ing at me reflectively, “ to George put the 
idea into his head, I fancy? Yes, it must 
have been so. When I heard you an- 
nounced, for a moment I thought that you 
were George.” 

“And you called up a look of the 
warmest welcome/’ I put in dryly. 

He colored, but answered almost im- 
mediately, “ I was afraid that he would 
assume that the governor had read his 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


2I 5 


letter, and blurt out something about it. 
Good Lord ! if you knew the funk in which 
I have been all the evening lest my father 
should ask either of us to read the letter ! ” 
and he gathered up his handkerchief with 
a sigh of relief, and wiped his forehead. 

“ I could see it very plainly,” I an- 
swered, going slowly in my mind over 
what he had told me. If the truth must 
be confessed, I was in no slight quandary 
what I should do, or what I should be- 
lieve. Was this really the key to it all ? 
Dared I doubt it ? or that that which I 
had constructed was a mare’s nest — the 
mere framework of a mare’s nest. For 
the life of me I could not tell ! 

“ Well? ” he said presently, looking up 
with an offended air. “ Is there anything 
else I can explain? or will you have the 
kindness to return my property to me 

“ There is one thing, about which I 
should like to ask a question,” I said. 

“ Ask on ! ” he replied ; and I wondered 
whether there was not a little too much 
of bravado in the tone of sufferance he 
assumed. 

“ Why do you carry ” — I went on, 


21 6 THE fatal letter. 

raising my eyes to his, and pausing on 
the word an instant — “ that little medica- 
ment — you know what I mean — in your 
waistcoat pocket, my friend ? ” 

He perceptibly flinched. “I don’t 
quite — quite understand,” he began to 
stammer. Then he changed his tone and 
went on rapidly, “ No ! I will be frank 

with you, Mr. — Mr. ” 

“ George,” I said calmly. 

“ Ah, indeed ?” a trifle surprised, “ Mr. 
George ! Well, it is something Bristowe 
gave me this morning to be administered 
to my father — without his knowledge, if 
possible — whenever he grows excited. I 
did not think that you had seen it.” 

Nor had I. I had only inferred its 
presence. But having inferred rightly 
once, I was inclined to trust my inference 
farther. Moreover, while he gave this 
explanation, his breath came and went 
so quickly that my former suspicions 
returned. I was ready for him when he 
said, “ Now I will trouble you, if you 
please, for those papers ? ” and held out 
his hand. 

“ I cannot give them to you,” I replied, 
point-blank. 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


217 


“You cannot give them tome now?” 
he repeated. 

“No. Moreover, the packet is sealed. 
I do not see, on second thoughts, what 
harm I can do you — now that it is out of 
your father’s hands — by keeping it until 
to-morrow, when I will return it to your 
brother, from whom it came.” 

“ He will not be in London,” he 
answered doggedly. He stepped between 
me and the door with looks which I did 
! !not like. At the same time I felt that 
some allowance must be made for a man 
treated in this way. 

“ I am sorry,” I said, “ but I cannot do 
what you ask. I will do this, however. 
If you think the delay of importance, and 
will give me your brother’s address in 
Liverpool, I will undertake to post the 
letters to him at once.” 

He considered the offer, eying me 
the while with the same disfavor which 
he had exhibited in the drawing room. 
At last he said slowly, “ If you will do 
that ? ” 

“ I will,” I repeated. “ I will do it 
immediately.” 

He gave me the direction — “ George 


2 1 8 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


Ritherdon, at the London and North- 
western Hotel, Liverpool ” — and in return 
I gave him my own name and address. 
Then I parted from him, with a civil good- 
night on either side — and little liking, I 
fancy — the clocks striking midnight, and 
the servants coming in as I passed out 
into the cool darkness of the square. 

Late as it was I went straight to my 
club, determined that, as I had assumed 
the responsibility, there should be no 
laches on my part. There I placed the 
packet, together with a short note explain- 
ing how it came into my possession, in an 
outer envelope, and dropped the whole, 
duly directed and stamped, into the nearest 
pillar box. I could not register it at that 
hour, and rather than wait until next 
morning, I omitted the precaution ; merely 
requesting Mr. Ritherdon to acknowledge 
its receipt. 

Well, some days passed ; during which it 
may be imagined that I thought no little 
about my odd experience. It was the 
story of the Lady and the Tiger over 
again. I had the choice of two alter- 
natives at least. I might either believe 
the young fellow’s story, which certainly 


THE FATAL LETTER. 219 

had the merit of explaining in a fairly 
probable manner an occurrence of so odd 
a character as not to lend itself freely to 
explanation. Or I might disbelieve his 
story, plausible in its very strangeness as 
it was, in favor of my own vague suspicions. 
Which was I to do ? 

Well, I set out by preferring the former 
alternative. This, notwithstanding that I 
had to some extent committed myself 
against it by withholding the papers. 
But with each day that passed without 
bringing me an answer from Liverpool, I 
leaned more and more to the other side. 
I began to pin my faith to the Tiger, 
adding each morning a point to the odds 
in the animal’s favor. So it went on until 
ten days had passed. 

Then a little out of curiosity, but more, 
I gravely declare, because I thought it the 
right thing to do, I resolved to seek out 
George Ritherdon. I had no difficulty in 
learning where he might be found. I 
turned up the firm of Ritherdon Brothers 
(George and Gerald), cotton-spinners and 
India merchants, in the first directory I 
consulted. And about noon the next day 
I called at their place of business, and 


2 20 THE FATAL LETTER . 

sent in my card to the senior partner. I 
waited five minutes — curiously scanned 
by the porter, who no doubt saw a like- 
ness between me and his employer — and 
then I was admitted to the latter’s room. 

He was a tall man with a fair beard, 
not one whit like Gerald, and yet tolerably 
good looking ; if I say more I shall seem 
to be describing myself. I fancied him 
to be balder about the temples, however, 
and grayer and more careworn than the 
man I am in the habit of seeing in my 
shaving glass. His eyes, too, had a hard 
look, and he seemed in ill health. All 
these things I took in later. At the time 
I only noticed his clothes. “ So the old 
gentleman is dead,” I thought, “ and the 
young one’s tale is true, after all ? 
George Ritherdon was in deep mourning. 

“ I wrote to you,” I began, taking the 
seat to which he pointed, “ about a fort- 
night ago.” 

He looked at my card, which he held 
in his hand. “I think not,” he said 
slowly. 

“Yes,” I repeated. “You were then 
at the London and Northwestern Hotel, 
at Liverpool.” 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


221 


He was stepping to his writing table, 
but he stopped abruptly. “ I was in 
Liverpool,” he answered, in a different 
tone, “ but I was not at that hotel. You 
are thinking of my brother, are you not ? ” 
“ No,” I said. “ It was your brother 
who told me you were there.” 

“ Perhaps you had better explain what 
was the subject of your letter,” he sug- 
gested, speaking in the weary tone of one 
returning to a painful matter. “ I have 
been through a great trouble lately, and 
this may well have been overlooked.” 

I said I would, and as briefly as pos- 
sible I told the main facts of my strange 
visit in Fitzhardinge Square. He was 
much moved, walking up and down the 
room as he listened, and giving vent to 
exclamations from time to time, until I 
came to the arrangement I had finally 
made with his brother. Then he raised 
his hand as one might do in pain. 

“ Enough ! ”he said abruptly. “ Barnes 
told me a rambling tale of some stranger. 
[ understand it all now.” 

I “ So do I, I think ! ” I replied dryly. 

‘ Your brother went to Liverpool, and 
received the papers in your name?” 


222 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


He murmured what I took for “ Yes.” 
But he did not utter a single word of 
acknowledgment to me, or of reprobation 
of his brother’s deceit. I thought some 
such word should have been spoken ; and 
I let my feelings carry me away. “ Let 
me tell you,” I said warmly, “ that your 
brother is a ” 

“ Hush ! ” he said, holding up his hand 
again. “ He is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” I repeated, shocked and 
amazed. 

“ Have you not read of it in the papers? 
It is in all the papers,” he said wearily. 
“ He committed suicide — God forgive me 
for it ! — at Liverpool, at the hotel you 
have mentioned, and the day after you 
saw him.” 

And so it was. He had committed some 
serious forgery — he had always been wild, 
though his father, slow to see it, had only 
lately closed his purse to him — and the 
forged signatures had come into his 
brother’s power. He had cheated his 
brother before. There had long been 
bad blood between them ; the one being 
as cold, businesslike, and masterful as the 
other was idle and jealous. 


THE FATAL LETTER. 


223 


“ I told him,” the elder said to me, 
shading his eyes with his hand, “ that I 
should let him be prosecuted — that I 
would not protect or shelter him. The 
threat nearly drove him mad ; and while 
it was hanging over him, I wrote to dis- 
close the matter to Sir Charles. Gerald 
thought his last chance lay in recovering 
this letter unread. The proofs against 
him destroyed, he might laugh at me. 
His first attempts failed ; and then he 
planned, with Barnes’ cognizance, to get 
possession of the packet by drugging my 
father’s whisky. Barnes’ courage deserted 
him ; he called you in, and — and you 
know the rest.” 

“ But,” I said softly, “ your brother did 
get the letter — at Liverpool.” 

George Ritherdon groaned. “ Yes,” he 
said, “ he did. But the proofs were not 
inclosed. After writing the outside letter 
I changed my mind, and withheld them, 
explaining my reasons within. He found 
his plot laid in vain ; and it was under the 
shock of this disappointment — the packet 
lay before him, resealed and directed 
to me — that he — that he did it. Poor 
Gerald ! ” 


224 THE FATAL LETTER. 

“ Poor Gerald ! ” I said. What else re- 
mained to be said ? 

It may be a survival of superstition, 
yet, when I dine in Baker Street now, 
I take some care to go home by any 
other route than that through Fitz- 
hardinge Square. 


THE END. 

































































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